A Study in Silver
by stillroisin
Summary: A dangerous new substance is creeping onto the streets of Magical and Muggle London alike, threatening public health as well as the Statute of Secrecy itself. Recently disgraced Healer, Roxanne Weasley, finds herself at the center of the crisis and must team up with an unlikely partner in a race against time to unravel the mystery.
1. Prologue: The Lodger

**Prologue: The Lodger  
**

* * *

The _Daily Prophet_ fluttered against Roxanne Weasley's hands as an unseasonable morning wind whipped down Diurn Alley. She struggled with her newspaper, trying not to lose hold of it, and took another sip of her cappuccino. Just across the road a Quidditch star shielded her face against the flashes of paparazzi lenses. Roxanne didn't even register the commotion and kept her attention focused on the _Prophet_ headlines. After seven years living on Diurn Alley, she'd become well accustomed to the bursts of activity surrounding some visiting celebrity.

Despite sitting only a brisk fifteen minute walk from the wizarding commercial center at Diagon Alley only a minority of Britain's magical population ever came to Diurn. An alley in name alone, Diurn was more of a boulevard. Its wide street was smooth, rather than cobbled—all the better for walking in expensive heels. Roxanne had gotten used to that sound; the clack-clack-clacking of stylish witches and adventurous wizards criss-crossing between the shops. Diurn Alley had always been a magnet for the rich and famous, with its unplottable apartment buildings and couture robe shops. As a result, gossip magazines kept a constant presence of journalists stationed in the area to intercept their targets.

Not that Roxanne had ever attracted much attention herself. Unlike the rest of her family, she'd managed to live most of her twenty-eight years with only limited mention in the press and her reputation had primarily been confined to the world of Healing. With a sullen sinking in her chest, she realized how likely it was that that might change.

She finished scanning that morning's _Prophet_ and felt relief at seeing no mention of her name. It seemed, at least for the time being, that the details of her messy departure from St. Mungo's hadn't yet leaked their way to the public. With a resigned sense of duty, she turned instead to her real target: the classified section.

Another fierce gust of wind swept her hair into flurry. Fluffy copper curls obscured her vision as the gale raged, but Roxanne remained resolute in her decision to occupy an outdoor table at Leonardo's. After seven years, and an unknowable number of cappuccinos, she would soon be saying goodbye to the cafe that had become like an extension of her own home. While she would certainly stop in whenever she was in the area, it just wouldn't be the same. Unless she managed to find another lucrative career before her flat found new tenants, she wouldn't again live just across the street from Leonardo's.

 _This is the end of an era,_ she thought, but the wistful notion didn't quite do justice to the enormity of her situation. It was more like the end of a life—a life she had been carefully constructing since her schoolgirl days.

The more Roxanne tried to cling to her old routine, the more her feeling of loss stung. Businesses all along Diurn opened for the day, and she felt a pang as she watched their windows twinkle to merry life. It was just an ordinary Monday to them; they didn't know she was saying goodbye.

Eyes re-focused on the flat-share listings in the _Prophet,_ Roxanne lifted her cappuccino to her lips but found only the overly sweet dregs where the sugar had settled at the bottom of her cup. With a sigh, she stepped back inside to order her third coffee in as many hours. She couldn't return home yet, as the realtor was still showing her flat, and she needed an excuse if she was to hang round Leonardo's all morning.

The cafe had been in continuous operation since the sixteenth century, and little had changed in that time. Its stone walls were crowded with paintings—all original DaVinci's, rather than the static replicas adorning muggle museums. A nude witch smirked and waved from the canvas above the bar.

Returning to her seat in the fierce wind, she struggled to flatten her newspaper. Her eyes paused on a listing—the first that was actually within her price-range: _Single Bedroom in Shared Flat, 100G/month. Paddington, Muggle London._

Her heart leapt and she rummaged for a quill to circle the advert, then read further: _Furnished bedroom, shared kitchen and bath, apparition point on site. Desired tennant is young, unemployed, and possessing of significant patience. Independently wealthy or with a stable financial safety-net a plus, but not required. Those who leave passive-aggressive notes about the washing up need not apply. I will be showing the apartment today, prospective candidates may drop by whenever._

Roxanne blinked down at the quixotic listing, not sure she'd read it correctly. It had been the first instance she'd yet seen where 'unemployed' hadn't been a deal-breaker. In fact, the degree to which the advert reflected her current situation was uncanny.

She felt some pause over the mention of 'passive-aggressive notes,' though; Roxanne had always been fastidiously tidy. While she hadn't flat-shared since she'd been in Healer training, she'd been known in those days to devise chore rotors and leave the occasional note if anyone slacked on their duties. But for only a hundred galleons a month she might be able to make a few allowances.

 _Independently wealthy, or with a stable financial safety-net,_ she thought. Roxanne had enough in savings to get by for a while on a budget, and in the event she couldn't find another job before her funds ran out, well…

She eschewed the idea of asking her family for gold, certain she'd much rather kip out on James' sofa (as he'd offered) than mooch off of her father's fortune. It seemed, somehow, more palatable to accept help from her cousins and peers than from her elder family. It was a comfort that her parents would never let her go destitute, but an option she had no interest in ever exploiting.

With clear-eyed determination, Roxanne gulped down the last of her cappuccino and made out for muggle London.

It had been easy enough to find the building but she struggled to identify the correct doorbell. Finally she spotted a cracking piece of parchment spell-o-taped to the door frame. Faded ink read _221B_ with an arrow pointed to an ancient-looking chord. Not sure what else to do, she gave it a tug. The sound of bells jangled above her head, harsher and more discordant than she'd expected, and she smoothed her clothes with nervous hands. In a desire to cheer herself up that morning she'd paired her favorite tartan skirt with a pair of lime green stockings, a yellow blouse, and a striped pink jumper. She began to regret her ostentatious ensemble just as heavy footfalls sounded from within.

Finally, the door creaked open to reveal a crumpled-looking face: dishwater-blond hair stuck out at rakish angles, several days of stubble darkened a gentle jaw, and a badly tattered housecoat hung open over a pair of what had once been elegant dress robes. He looked young, maybe a few years younger than Roxanne, but prematurely weathered.

"Oh," the wizard said, holding a tattooed hand up against the glare of the early afternoon sun. "Healer Weasley, I take it?"

"You—you were expecting me?" Roxanne blinked at the eccentric young man.

"No, not in the least," he replied.

"Then how..."

"I'm very good at what I do," he waved dismissively.

"Oi!" Roxanne cried, throwing her fingers over her face. "Don't you dare go looking into—"

"I'm not a Legilimens," he rolled his eyes. "Well, I am, but it's an awful practice. Too messy. Too easily blocked, or corrupted, or subverted. I prefer to _deduce._ "

"So you deduced my name and job? From what?" Roxanne asked, suspicious. "I mean, yeah, I'm black and I'm ginger, so that's a give away—but how did you know I'm a Healer?"

"Yes, your coloring is rather idiosyncratic, but no, that isn't how I figured your identity."

"What then?"

"Freshly roasted coffee," he replied.

"Pardon?"

"That's what you smell like," he explained. "The oils aerosolize during roasting, and cling to your hair and the fibres of your clothes. And you've got a lot of hair, and with a particular texture, so you have more surface area to trap the oils."

"And how does smelling like coffee tell you my name and occupation?" Roxanne pressed, one fist perched on her hip. Dread began boiling in her gut; perhaps something about her retirement from Healing had made the press after all.

" _Former_ occupation, but I'll get to that," the young man corrected her. "Starting with the coffee: the aroma suggests a lower tannin content. It's a gruesome process—the beans have to pass through the digestive tract of a kneazle. These coffee blends are expensive, and the residual foam in your hair tells me you had a cappuccino. There are a few places in London that serve luxury espresso, but only Leonardo's on Diurn Alley has outdoor seating. Given your quantity of hair, you might not have been sitting somewhere windy while you sipped your drink, but as I've already established, you were a Healer, and so you aren't likely to be sloppy."

"Yeah, so I had a cappuccino on Diurn, but—"

"Cappuccinos at Leonardo's run for a galleon a cup," he went on as if there hadn't been an interruption. "And judging by your tremor, you've had at least a few today. So just this morning, you spent more than the barista's daily wages on caffeine—this tells me you come from money. Certainly Healers make decent salaries, but as I've mentioned, you are no longer a Healer. Therefore, I have to assume you grew up rich; rich enough that you wouldn't balk at spending a small fortune on gourmet beverages."

Roxanne rolled her eyes, growing exhausted of his parlor trick and increasingly convinced that she had indeed been photographed by some sly _Prophet_ reporter. "Since when is 'rich' synonymous with 'Weasley?'"

"Since the war, obviously," the man said, and his expression implied he'd wanted badly to follow up that statement by saying, _duh._ "But there's more evidence of your ancestry: Your muggle costume is not, in itself, surprising—we're in the middle of muggle London, after all. But you wear it with some awareness to current fashion trends, so you aren't likely from the pureblood old guard. There's also the bold mix of patterns and bright colors, which suggests a sense of humor, as well as a marked lack of snobbery. These observations culminate to tell me you are the daughter of successful joke shop business owner, George Weasley. Plus, like you said, the ginger afro."

"But how'd you know I'm a Healer, then? It's been in the papers, hasn't it?"

" _Were_ a Healer," the man corrected again and Roxanne felt her face flush with annoyance. "The index finger and thumb on your left hand are stained aubergine, a recognizable marker of someone who spends a lot of time cutting bezoars for preparation in healing draughts. On its own, that might just tell me that you work with potions, but the soles of your shoes are rubber. And worn at the heels. Most potioneers don't do a whole lot of walking on marble floors."

"And what, the type of wool in my jumper tells you that I quit?" Roxanne raised an eyebrow.

"Of course not, don't be absurd."

"Oh, so nothing from my jumper then," she deadpanned.

"No no, your jumper tells me a great deal," he gave an eager nod. "But it's absurd to suggest that you _quit._ No one with a decent salary or any prospects would bother inquiring about this flat. It's rather a hovel."

He hadn't lied. She followed him upstairs to find a coffee table overflowed with yellowing issues of _Transfiguration Today_ and at least twenty mouldy teacups perched precariously on the many boxes and crates. Roxanne scrunched her nose against the stench of sour milk and stale cigarette smoke, surveying the disaster that was 221B Baker Street.

She almost hadn't followed the maddening young man into the building, but burning curiosity had won out against her fierce desire to simply slap him across his smug little face and storm off. More to the point, it was the only housing she'd found within her limited price range. Perhaps, she thought, she shouldn't throw money away on expensive coffees after all.

"I have a very complex organizational system, so please don't disturb the order of the sitting room," he said, lighting a cigarette.

"Organized?" Roxanne scoffed. "You're a proper hoarder!"

"Not hoarder, _collector_ ," he inclined his head. "The crates all contain sensitive case files for the Ministry, highly confidential. The academic literature is stacked corresponding to each file, organized by relevance. I know it's… obscure, but there's a method to it."

"And the mouldy teacups?" Roxanne raised a brow and eyed a particularly fuzzy mug with disdain.

"I find it helpful to leave, ah, booby traps around the flat," he explained. The vibrato hadn't left his voice, but his shoulders sagged noticeably. "Keeps me sharp."

Roxanne fought to contain an exasperated grumble and fanned his cloud of smoke away from her face. She knew she had little choice in living arrangements but couldn't stomach the prospect of having to navigate such squalor.

"What about this?" she demanded, picking up a copy of _Them!_ magazine. "Old celebrity gossip rags are hardly 'academic literature.'"

"I happen to be very invested in the details of Circe and Myron Wagtail's relationship!" he replied defensively. A pause, then, "we may be able to make some, ah, _alterations_ to the common spaces."

At least her future-bedroom wasn't terrible. It was small, to be sure, and faced south to a sunwell ensuring she'd get very little natural light. But it was clean, and it was furnished, and it didn't smell. That smell was even a concern reminded Roxanne what a significant reduction she'd soon be making in her standard of living.

The furniture was old, she noticed. Antiques, but in rather shabby condition. A green brocaded duvet spread over the bed, and while threadbare in places, it had a certain beauty. Roxanne took a deep breath, trying to picture making a life in that dingy little flat. She spared a few seconds mentally redecorating the room, finding it easier to plan how she might arrange her personal belongings than plan how she might arrange her future.

 _One step at a time_ , she thought. _Step One: find yourself. Step Two: get a life._

"So, will you be, er, moving in then?" her future flatmate asked around the door. His voice had the tinge of timid eagerness, and while Roxanne had been mostly frustrated by their interactions thus far, she couldn't help but feel mildly endeared.

"Yes," she sighed. "I imagine I will be."

"Excellent," he said with a clap, all previous confidence restored. "You can bring your things round later this evening. Rent is due on the first of every month, and you can pay the landlady directly. First and last month's to move in; Mrs. Hudson should be home by three."

"Good, okay," Roxanne nodded, feeling dizzy with the abruptness with which she'd made such a major decision. "Well then, I guess I should..."

"Miss Weasley," the young man interrupted, pulling a rather fine pocket-watch from his robes and checking the time. "Do you have any prior engagements for the next two hours?"

"No, I—"

"Good, that saves coming up with an excuse to get out of them."

"Pardon?" she cocked her head, annoyed by the presumption.

"Would you care to accompany me to the Ministry? I could use a medical consultation for a case. There's a briefing at the D.M.L.E. in twenty minutes."

"Hold on," Roxanne peered into his pallid face. "I don't even know your name yet!"

"Right, yes," he shook his head. "I'm Perry Hume, Consulting Auror to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Pleased to meet you."

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** _Several elements (like 221B Baker Street, the character of Mrs. Hudson, the title of the story, and basically the whole 'getting an apartment' thing) are taken from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories. But those are in the public domain, so haha! I can use them as much as I want!_

I tried as hard as possible to avoid rehashing things that had been done on the TV shows "Sherlock" and "Elementary" while keeping this in the 'Holmesian Pastiche' tradition. I hope very much that it doesn't seem too similar to either of those, but since all three are inspired by the same source material, it'll certainly have familiar elements.

The name "Hume" comes from the same archaic root as "Holmes." I chose it for its association with the philosopher David Hume, noted empiricist and skeptic.

The portrait of the 'nude witch' is a reference to a theory among art historians that there was a nude version of the Mona Lisa that has been lost.

Them! _Magazine is a reference to_ Us! _but with a more honest title._

And bahahahahaha, 'diurnally.' [Nerd alert]

Extra special thanks to Crestwood and Mymischiefmanaged at HPFF, my amazing fantastic betas. This story wouldn't have been possible without them! Also to ad astra (HPFF) for suggesting I split this chapter here (originally chapters one and two were combined, which resulted in a pretty daunting word count).


	2. At the DMLE

**At the D.M.L.E.**

* * *

Roxanne pinned her visitor's badge to the front of her jumper and followed Perry Hume through the Ministry atrium toward the lifts. It would be too much to say that she particularly liked her new flatmate, but she couldn't deny that she found him interesting. Most importantly, after spending a decade in the high pressure field of Healing, Roxanne had felt overwhelmed by the prospect of filling her now significant free time. Having managed to find a flat she'd had no idea what she might do with the rest of her day. And dishing out an endless stream of galleons in order to hang round cafes all day seemed inadvisable in her current situation.

She felt uncomfortable walking through the Ministry, marked as it was by the many fingerprints of her exalted family. The inscription on the Victory Fountain, _Equality is the Only Path to Excellence_ , had been devised by her aunt. The golden lightning bolt at the fountain's centre signified her uncle. Even the announcements on the bulletin boards bore the names of relatives: _Winners of the 2030 Fred Weasley Memorial Scholarship_ , and then in parentheses, _Merlin Help Us._

Roxanne shrunk into the shadows of her more illustrious family members' accomplishments, trying not to register the ragged ache of inadequacy tugging inside her. Somehow, she'd managed to throw away two years of advanced training, another three of grueling specialization work, and hundreds of hours of residency all in service of her, now ruined, Healing career.

 _Twenty-eight years old, and I've nothing to show for it._

"So, how long have you worked for the Ministry?" Roxanne asked, wanting a distraction from her own nagging regret while Perry held open the lift doors.

" _With_ the Ministry," Perry corrected. "I'm an independent contractor."

"Well, how long have you worked _with_ the Ministry?" she repeated, tendrils of annoyance creeping up her neck.

"Unofficially since 2020," he said as the lift grumbled into motion.

"2020, but—how old are you?"

"Twenty-four," Perry sniffed.

"What, so you started consulting when you were _fourteen_?"

"Unofficially yes."

The cage-doors opened again on the Law Enforcement floor and the unlikely duo stepped out after a few fluttering paper-aeroplanes. Roxanne had visited the auror offices a few times in her life and little had changed since she'd last seen them. At least, she thought, her uncle had finally been successful in restoring the original crest. He'd spent a few unhappy years lobbying against a design that prominently featured a pair of circular spectacles.

"Roxy?" the familiar voice called out and she felt her heart drop in her chest—she'd hoped to have her life somewhat sorted before seeing her extended family. "What brings you here?"

"Hi Uncle Harry," Roxanne said, accepting his firm hug. "I'm, er, just tagging along."

"Listen," the Head Auror lowered his voice and Roxanne noted how much larger his striking green eyes appeared without glasses. He'd begun wearing contact lenses whenever he was in public, ostensibly because losing his spectacles became a risk in combat situations. In reality, he'd wanted to make the crest design redundant by retiring his signature round glasses. "I heard a bit about the situation with Blishwick at St. Mungo's. Aunt Hermione's happy to step in, if it comes to that."

"It won't," Roxanne said with finality. "No need to worry."

"Trafficked Unicorn Blood!" Perry blurted out bringing a welcome, if aggravating, interruption to the moment. "Very concerning stuff. I haven't got much time."

Harry closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. Clearly, he found Perry Hume just as frustrating as his niece did.

"Yes, Perry," Harry sighed. "Auror Finch-Fletchley will brief you, but we're rescinding your access to samples after what happened last time. Photographs and notes only."

"Fine, slow me down," Perry grumbled before striding past Harry. "Come along, Healer Weasley."

Roxanne balked at being summoned in such a way and shared a confused glance with her uncle before following the 'Consulting Auror' into the evidence chamber.

"Well it isn't Unicorn blood," Auror Finch-Fletchley announced while Perry held a phial of viscous silver fluid up to the light. "We thought it might have _cogulated_ , making it thicker. But potions analysis are negative for blood."

"Co- _a_ -gulated," Perry corrected. "And I could have told you it wasn't blood. But it is mostly organic."

"Yes," Finch-Fletchley admitted, the muscles working in his jaw. "We've determined that it's some kind of narcotic. We're re-assigning the case to standard law enforcement. No dark magic here, just run-of-the-mill law breaking."

"You're implying that I should leave," Perry noted, eyes still trained on the silver goop.

"Quite," nodded the auror.

"You're wrong," said Perry.

"Excuse me?" Finch-Fletchley asked, temper rising.

"This matter falls under your jurisdiction."

"And how exactly—"

"I surmise you've determined the general components of this admixture?" Perry asked.

"Yes," the auror said, relaxing his shoulder. "Pixie milk cut with an herbal extract—we've narrowed it down to some species of poppy. Some other trace dilutants as well, but—"

"Weasley, thoughts?" Perry instructed.

"Oh, well," she cast about for ideas. She'd worked with pixie milk back at St. Mungo's as a treatment for Cruciatus victims and was familiar with its therapeutic properties. "If the substance is a narcotic, then I'd guess singing bloodroot? It's a New World poppy, and when distilled, it might enhance the euphoria—"

"Yes I know about singing bloodroot and you're wrong," Perry cut her off. "It isn't a magical plant. Tell me, what color is pixie milk?"

"White," Finch-Fletchley said at the same time Roxanne answered, "Pearlescent."

"Yes to Weasley," Perry replied. "And so if you wanted to make silver, what color would you add?"

"Black," Roxanne mumbled, not appreciating being treated like a child.

"Righto," Perry smiled, finally tearing his eyes away from the phial. "Black tar heroin, to be specific. It's a particularly toxic muggle street drug, heavily cut with dangerous compounds. I'm assuming there have been fatalities."

Auror Finch-Fletchley banged his fist against the oak table, causing Roxanne to jump. The color had risen in his face and a large vein pulsed ominously in his forehead.

"Dammit, Hume, how is this any of our concern? When we believed this was a threat to a protected species, and when we believed we were dealing with cursed material, then we had a case. I don't see how _muggle street drugs_ are our problem!"

"Well," Perry replied in a cool voice, seemingly unfazed by the auror's outburst. "I'm sure Healer Weasley can explain why it's your concern. Weasley," he said turning his grey eyes to Roxanne. "Will you tell Mr. Finch-Fletchley why an admixture of muggle and wizarding narcotics might need attention by the Auror Office?"

"It was a post-war policy revision," Roxanne said, a little stunned to be put on the spot to argue against a furious auror. "Article seven-hundred-and-something—"

"Seven hundred forty seven," Perry offered quietly.

"Yeah, that one," Roxanne nodded. "Any misuse of a muggle artifact or invention got reclassified as a higher security threat, and should be treated as a potential war crime. It was part of the newer statutes against muggle baiting."

Indeed, experimental admixtures with any muggle chemical had been expressly forbidden. Her aunt Hermione had passed the restrictions almost two decades before. The string of grisly murders that had precipitated the legislation had been the very reason her uncle Ron had retired from the auror office to work in her father's joke shop.

But the laws came with their own sets of detractors. Roxanne herself had even felt frustration with the legislation while working on experimental cures at St. Mungo's.

"They're right," Harry's voice echoed from beside the door. Roxanne hadn't heard him come in. "We're going to have to hold on to this case for now—at least until we know distribution is confined to the wizarding population."

Harry fished a pair a glasses from his robes pocket and slid them up his nose.

"Well since your office clearly lacks interest in the case, I'd be happy to take lead," Perry offered a hopeful smile. "I'll need my sample privileges reinstated, obviously."

"Absolutely not," Harry said—firm, but not unkind. "You may advise and you may research, but that's all."

Perry deflated, casting about for a further argument.

"That's enough for today, Mr. Hume," Harry said gently. "Roxanne, have you had lunch?"

The sun was high in the sky and the morning's wind had finally died down, so Roxanne and her uncle took their meal on the patio of a fancy muggle restaurant. She knew that Harry typically preferred a more casual atmosphere and privately suspected that he'd made an effort to treat her to an expensive meal. He probably thought it would be her last for a very long time. He was probably right.

All around them, Soho bustled. Cars and mini-cabs drew deep breaths down the road while muggles babbled at their computer implants, giving every impression that they were talking to themselves. Roxanne admired the juxtaposition of the futuristic-looking solar panels adorning the centuries-old buildings and the occasional wind-turbines sat on victorian roofs. She loved London—so modern and yet so ancient. The pulse of so many lives throbbing in the streets, and the feeling of getting lost in a swirl of a thousand passions. A living, breathing city, continually being reborn and reimagined, yet anchored by its history. Flexible, but immutable. It could grow and adapt, but it would always be London.

"So, it was a surprise seeing you at the office today," Harry said after the waitress had taken their order. "I didn't know you were friends with Perry Hume."

"I'm not, really," Roxanne said around a sip of her ice-water. "I just tagged along."

"How long have you known him?" Harry went on and Roxanne couldn't help but feel, despite his airy affectations, like she was being interrogated.

"Just a few hours, really—I answered his advert for a flatmate. I suppose I must have crossed paths with him at school, but I don't remember him. 'Hume' doesn't ring any bells."

"No, I don't reckon it would," Harry mused as he buttered a slice of baguette. "So you're not going to move in, are you?"

"It's all I can afford," Roxanne shrugged. "I saved while I was at St. Mungo's, but I don't know how long it'll be before I can get into a new field."

"Well you can always do potions," Harry suggested, predictably.

"Yes, I'm considering it," Roxanne replied. The truth was that she couldn't stand the idea of staying cooped up in a lab all day. Certainly, the work of potioneers could help people, but it felt so far removed. As a Healer, Roxanne could engage in person—see the outcome of all her work.

"Listen, I know you wouldn't want to ask, but there's a real benefit to having as much family as you do," Harry finally said. "You don't need to house-share with Perry. I mean, if all your aunts and uncles contributed just a few galleons a month, that'd be enough for something decent."

"I can't ask you lot to do all that—I still owe you and Ginny for my postgraduate tuition as it is."

"That wasn't a loan," Harry shook his head. "We were glad to help."

"Even now that career's down the drain?" Roxanne asked, some of her own frustration leaking into her voice.

"Just because it ended doesn't mean the time you spent at St. Mungo's didn't matter," Harry replied.

"Thank you," Roxanne inclined her head, genuinely appreciating the sentiment.

"And I know you'll do something excellent, so let me help you while I can. Gin and I could get you a place on Diagon—a little studio to start."

Roxanne felt shame boil up in her throat. A few seconds ago he'd suggested dividing the cost of her assistance among the whole extended family—now he was offering to shoulder the burden with just his wife. Her uncle had always been generous with his family. In fact, her father's business success wouldn't have been possible without Harry's initial investment. But Roxanne hated the idea that, while pushing up against thirty-years-old, she might ask financial support from Harry. It had been her own misguided choices that had landed her where she was, so all responsibility to dig her way back up should fall to her alone.

"No thank you," she replied as gently as she could. "It's not ideal, but it's only temporary. And the rent is pretty unbeatable."

"It would have to be," Harry sighed. "Listen, it won't be easy living with Perry. He's... a difficult person."

"Yeah I noticed," Roxanne scoffed, reaching for slice of bread from the basket.

"No, I don't think you understand," his voice grew serious. "He's very bright—too bright, really. Just..."

"Then why do you hire him?"

"We don't." Harry looked surprised. "Roxanne, we don't pay him. He just, sort of, won't go away. We tolerate him, as a courtesy. And because I think it's good for him to have something to do."

"A courtesy to whom?" Roxanne's eyes narrowed with curiosity.

"It's an old debt," Harry dismissed the question, trying to sound casual, but he didn't meet her gaze.

Roxanne took the rest of the afternoon to finish packing and much of the early evening culling her many possessions. There wouldn't be room enough for it all at her new flat anyway, and she needed to get whatever money she could by selling things off.

Why, she wondered, had she bothered to spend so much on a luxury espresso maker if she always went to Leonardo's for coffee? Why had she thought it reasonable to purchase so many pairs of shoes that she never wore? Roxanne tried to run an inventory of all the things she didn't need, but stopped estimating their total costs after realizing it would amount to a depressingly tall pile of gold.

And precious little of the original cost, she discovered, was redeemable via resale. Roxanne watched, frustrated, as the second-hand shop on Diagon offered back only a fraction of the value on a pair of dress robes that still had the tags on.

Then again, it would be a lucky find for whatever person ended up buying them used. Roxanne tried to focus on the silver lining that someone, maybe some teenager that had grown up less privileged than she had, would be overjoyed to find designer robes at such a low price. Her father and his family had shopped almost exclusively at that same store as children, after all. Perhaps it was her duty to pay it forward.

A few hours later, Roxanne returned to her flat just in time to vacate it. Enjoying the view of the sunset from her expansive windows for the last time she tried not to remember the joy she'd felt upon moving in—the excitement of being able to afford such a splendid home by the fruits of her own labors. It was, after all, by the fruit of her own labor that she now needed to leave.

The night came quick.

It took six trips to haul her remaining belongings to the house on Baker Street via apparition. More than once Roxanne considered shelling out for the Knight Bus or a muggle taxi, but resolved that she would no longer spend gold so wantonly. Once she'd appeared with the last load in the courtyard behind the building, she realized that she'd never gotten a key. She climbed up the fire escape and rapped on the kitchen window for 221B, but Perry didn't answer.

" _Fuckfuckfuck_ ," Roxanne muttered to herself, helplessness and self-pity mounting. It had been, she determined, an odd day. Navigating its many twists and turns had worn her out. She wanted nothing more than to curl up under that shabby bedspread in that wretched flat and cling to the last few possessions that remained from her former life. As that option was indefinitely delayed, Roxanne climbed back down into the crowded little courtyard and seriously considered crying.

"Hello there, are you the new lodger?" a kindly Scottish brogue rang out in the dark. Roxanne squinted her eyes against the gloom before spotting the round, tan face of an older woman smiling from a first floor window.

"Yes, hello, I'm Roxanne!" she called back, not sure what to do with her hands.

"Just one moment dear, I'll let you in," the woman said before unlatching the back door. Her thick salt-and-pepper hair hung in a short, wavy coif.

"Thank you so much, Mrs..."

"Hudson," the landlady replied pleasantly, waving for Roxanne to enter.

Mrs. Hudson's kitchen was neat and inviting, decorated with many fussy little nicknacks. An ancient cassette-disc player murmured quietly with old muggle tunes from the 1980s and several framed posters adorned the floral papered walls. Within seconds, a steaming mug of cardamom and mint tea was sat before Roxanne and she nearly exploded with gratitude.

"Perry didn't think to give you a key, I take it?" the landlady asked and Roxanne nodded. "He's an eccentric one, he is. Lucky I keep a spare to do the tidying up," she added, giving Roxanne's hand a warm pat. "I'd hate to think what disorder it might get up to if I didn't sneak in time and again."

"Well you might not want to see it just yet—it's a right mess," Roxanne sighed.

"Oh no, I went up just today for a spot of cleaning!" Mrs. Hudson gasped. "I didn't want it to be too awful if he'd be showing it."

Roxanne was taken aback, remembering the squalor she'd seen earlier that day.

"Ah, yes," Mrs. Hudson said, seeing Roxanne's stunned expression. "What you saw was about as nice as I can make it. He throws a fit if I do anything more than dust and wash the worst of the teacups."

"Do you have any idea when he'll be home?" Roxanne asked as she blew on her tea, hoping that the two didn't share china.

"Who knows, he keeps odd hours," Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "Loud music in the middle of the night, explosions—he assures me they're 'controlled.'"

"Why do you, you know, continue renting to him?" Roxanne asked, careful not to come off too forward.

"Oh, he pays like a prince!," Mrs. Hudson nodded, then lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. "His rent in a year is more than I bought the building for back in '90!" After a moment's pause, she added, "and, well, I'm rather fond of the young man, really. I'll give you that he's odd, but he has a good heart, that one."

Once again, Roxanne tried to control her features—not wanting to seem rude by letting her surprise show. _If he can afford to pay so much_ , she wondered, _then why is he renting the spare room out for so little_? She tried not to dwell too much on that mysterious question just yet; there were still important points she needed to work out with the new landlady.

CD player, television, a house in Paddington—all evidence indicated that Mrs. Hudson was a muggle.

"So what do you do?" Roxanne asked in a mild voice.

"Oh, I'm retired," the old woman smiled.

"You're from Scotland, yeah? Did you go to school there?" she pressed.

"Born in Istanbul, but I did my schooling in Scotland," Mrs. Hudson nodded as she sipped her tea. "Never bothered with more advanced qualifications though."

"Do you mind if I ask what you did? Before retiring?" Roxanne didn't want seem interrogating, but the responses so far had been incredibly vague.

Mrs. Hudson gave her a knowing look. "You're trying to find out if I'm a—what do you call it? A moggle?"

"I—"

"Well I am, but don't be concerned about it," Mrs. Hudson smiled. "I assume you're like Perry; graduate of the Warthog School and all."

"You know about that?"

"Oh I figured it out ages ago—spellbooks all over the shelves, potions simmering away in cauldrons," Mrs. Hudson gave a gentle laugh. "It took ages for Perry to open up about it. But it's no bother to me. I quite like having a wizard around. He's excellent at DIY," she added in an undertone.

The landlady helped Roxanne into her new flat shortly after eight and the young woman got to work unpacking her most beloved things. She found comfort assembling them into something that better resembled a home. A few hours later she lay down fully clothed atop her green brocaded bedspread and fell asleep without realizing it.

 _BANG._

 _BANG, BANG._

Roxanne's eyes shot open, the veil of her lingering dream obscuring her surroundings. She'd been trying to fight, but her limbs had moved too slow, as though under water. A crowd had formed around her and Head Healer Blishwick... and there had been more, but the specifics faded fast as her consciousness broke through the sleepy membrane into reality.

 _BANG._

Shaking herself into wakefulness, Roxanne let the most important questions scramble to the front of her mind: _1) Where the hell am I? 2) What the hell is going on? 3) How much of that dream is memory?_

She answered her last question first: _too much._ The other groggy answers trickled in shortly thereafter.

The skin of her legs felt sore from sleeping in nylons and her underarms ached from the pinch of her bra. Roxanne decided to change before gently confronting Perry; Mrs. Hudson had warned her that this might be an issue, after all. Indeed, the explosions sounded 'controlled.'

After slipping into her most modest pajamas and dressing gown Roxanne stepped out into the sitting room. As she'd only just moved in, and as she was paying a pittance in rent, she tried to control her fury at the lack of consideration.

"Excuse me, Perry," she called out. The wizard whipped around to greet her, wand raised, and she flinched.

"Terribly sorry, Weasley," he said, composing himself. "Target practice, have to keep sharp."

"Right—do you have the time?"

"Quarter past four."

"Bollocks, I should probably get back to sleep," Roxanne said, hoping he'd catch her implied point. "I need to be up early."

"What have you got on?" he asked, seeming genuinely curious rather than combative. Roxanne realized she didn't have an answer. "I could use another pair of eyes on this case. We should get started immediately."

"Er, I'm going to need to get on, well, finding another job and all," Roxanne thought out loud. "Even something basic, waitressing or something, to hold me over."

"Weasley, you do realize that I _just_ offered you a job." Perry blinked. " _Just now_."

"But," Roxanne shuffled uncomfortably. "I'll need, you know, a _paying_ job..."

" _Yes_ ," Perry pressed, eyes wide, as though she was being very thick.

"But you can't pay me?"

"Of course I can," he seemed confused. "That's why I called it _a job._ "

"But... how?"

"Ah." All at once, Perry turned steely. Turned away. "So you spoke with your uncle then, during your lunch." Perry tried to seem distracted, tidying. He picked up a mouldy teacup but appeared confused about what to do next and set it back down again.

"He just—it came out. I didn't mean to pry."

"I have a consistent stream of income," Perry replied in a chilly voice, still avoiding her gaze. "A revenue source outside the Ministry."

"Where from?" Roxanne asked before thinking and Perry's eyes flashed. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Quite alright," he blew past the moment but the awkwardness still billowed in the filthy sitting room. "So how much would you be needing? More than your rent, I presume, so you'll be functioning at a net positive." Perry paced as he spoke, a manic energy radiating off of him in waves. "How does three hundred galleons a month sound?"

" _Three hundred galleons_?" Roxanne gasped. That was more than three times her rent! All things considered, she'd be living for free, with a decent salary on top to boot. Less, certainly, than she'd made at St. Mungo's, but nothing to turn her nose up at either.

"I know it's nothing to what you had before—I can go as high as four," Perry entreated.

"No, don't, three hundred is fine!" Roxanne waved her hands. Two things were imminently clear: 1) Perry did indeed have the money to pay what he'd offered, and 2) he was most definitely quite mad. After several years working with the mentally impaired Roxanne didn't want to take advantage. "I don't even know if I'll be any good at... 'Consulting.'"

"I don't need you to be _good_ , I only need you to be _present_ ," he said. Roxanne ruffled at the impact of the statement, but decided, given the circumstances, that she'd be better off letting it lie. For his part, Perry seemed excited, and bounced merrily on the balls of his feet. "We'll need to get you ready straight away. Have you got a spare trunk to begin your own file database?"

"I... no." She had, in fact, sold all but one of her trunks earlier that day. _What purpose is a container when you've sold everything it might contain?_ she'd reasoned.

"No matter," Perry replied before shooting off down the hall towards his own bedroom. There followed a series of bangs, shouted curses, and the sound of glass shattering. In under a minute he was dragging a handsome trunk into the sitting room. "You can use this—custom made when I went to Hogwarts. You can imagine I'm keen to be rid of it."

Perry kicked the trunk open, presenting its stained and dusty interior to his new partner.

"So you _did_ go to Hogwarts?" Roxanne frowned. "Sorry, it's just, I don't remember you. What was your House?"

"Ravenclaw," Perry sniffed.

"I was Gryffindor," Roxanne said as she crouched down to scour the inside of the old trunk with her wand. "Huh," she muttered, reading the engraving on the trunk's ornate latch. " _SHM._ What's that stand for?"

"No idea," Perry replied breezily.

"You said it was custom made," Roxanne raised an eyebrow.

Perry squinted at her in reply. It was almost comically suspicious.

"I suppose I did," he evaded.

" _SHM_...Perry..." All at once, realization hit her. "Perry! _Hyperion_! You're Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy!"

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** _"The Fred Weasley Memorial Scholarship" is a reference to the Dobby winning novel of the same name by the amazing Lisa/ad astra (HPFF). Extra special thanks to Lisa for suggesting splitting this chapter from the last! And of course, to Crestwood and Mymischiefmanaged for being such amazing betas and holding my hand while I sobbed at them about this story._


	3. The Huddled Masses

**The Huddled Masses**

 _Please note that this chapter includes some harrowing images of substance abuse._

* * *

"Listen, it makes sense," Roxanne gave an encouraging nod as they waited for coffees from a muggle food truck. Dawn was just breaking over the horizon but the frigid night air still clung to the streets of muggle London. Roxanne blew on her hands while Perry bounced in place, avoiding her eye. "I don't blame you for wanting to change your name. I mean, I know what it's like to have a famous family—not that it's the same! I mean..."

"I didn't change my name to avoid my family history," Perry sniffed.

"Oh?" Roxanne's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "Why then?"

"Scorpius is a terrible, awful name," he replied. "And unlike other terrible, awful names, it lacks any redeeming possibilities for being shortened."

The muggle finished adding cream to their coffees and handed them over. Roxanne removed the lid and blew, considering what Perry had said. "Yeah, I suppose 'Scorp' isn't much good," she mused and Perry replied with a grave shake of his head. "Scor, maybe—that isn't so bad... Pius is awful, though."

"I am aware," Perry agreed, turning on his heel back to Baker Street. "Since you're working with me," he added after a pause. "I'd like to know if you're attached."

"Attached?" Roxanne asked, falling into step with him.

"Yes, attached," he repeated. "To another. A boyfriend, a fiance, a _paramour._ "

Roxanne faltered, overwhelmed by the terrifying idea that Scorpius Malfoy might be hitting on her. "No, not... right now," she replied before embellishing: "nothing serious, anyway."

"Yes I imagine that being blood relations to half of wizarding Britain might rather stymie a romantic life," Perry nodded

"And you?" Roxanne asked, hoping to draw attention away from herself. "Girlfriend?" Perry missed a step. "Boyfriend?" she asked instead, trying to keep the tinge of hopefulness out of her voice. She couldn't help but think that significant awkwardness might be avoided if he were gay, but also recognized that his sexuality wasn't any of her business.

"Neither as of yet," he replied, jaw tense, as his pace evened back out.

"So what do we know?" Perry asked, sounding everything in the world like a professor back at Hogwarts conducting a lesson. They were sat at the kitchen table, files and notes laid out before them with more organization than Roxanne would have thought him capable of.

"It's a narcotic, mixed muggle and magical ingredients, and it's potentially fatal," she replied.

"And what might that tell us?" he pushed on, steepling his fingers.

"The supplier is likely a witch or wizard, but has a decent understanding of the muggle world." She frowned, feeling like he would be expecting more from her. She went back to what they'd discussed at the Ministry, and the reason for the laws about messing with muggle chemical compounds. "And it's a fatal augmentation of a muggle material, which suggests it could be Dark Wizards trying to cause muggles harm."

"Unlikely," Perry concluded to her surprise. "The fatal component is the _muggle_ narcotic—hardly a novel introduction into muggle society. The assumption that naivete might make a person vulnerable—as is the modus operandi with muggle baiting—would instead put _wizards_ as the intended targets. I suspect that there isn't much of a conspiracy at play here; just the careless distribution of a dangerous substance."

"But you said, at the Ministry—"

Perry waved a hand. "I only suggested muggle baiting to keep the case under auror jurisdiction. There isn't actually much support for that theory."

Roxanne couldn't think of anything clever to say, so she instead decided to scan Perry's meticulous notes.

"If you'd like to take a look at a sample," he said, producing a parcel of twisted cellophane from his pocket.

"But Harry said you weren't to take any evidence from the Ministry!" she spluttered.

"Yes, so I procured a sample myself. Independently."

"But—how?" she asked, taking the sample and turning it over in the light.

"Well, I bought it, as one typically buys drugs," he rolled his eyes, then collapsed into a chair. "Which tells us something else..."

Gray eyes bored into hazel while Roxanne considered the question.

"Distribution isn't confined to the wizarding world," she replied, unhappy to realize the connection.

"Yes," he sighed. "And the material contains magical ingredients. It's only a matter of time before some muggle dies or goes to hospital and the authorities discover the substance. A few tests in a lab and bam: the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, crumbled to dust."

Roxanne felt the full weight of the predicament settle onto her chest. "Is black tar heroin really that much more dangerous?" she asked. She knew a bit, from Healer training, about heroin's addictive nature and overdose potential—but only in its powder form, or when diluted with water. She tried not to imagine that gummy silver material clogging up a person's veins.

"Yes," Perry replied, lowering his chin so that his face caught the shadows. "Very much so."

"How about this?" Roxanne asked, smoothing her disguise with an anxious hand. She'd paired every 'pre-distressed' muggle garment she owned in an attempt to look shabby.

"Absolutely not," Perry replied from his threadbare armchair, chin perched absurdly on his fist while he considered her. Roxanne couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Well what do addicts wear?" she demanded. "This is all I could come up with."

"It's too forced, like an undercover officer," he said. "And you're just too well kempt. Too clean, too manicured."

"Thank you?"

"It wasn't a compliment," Perry replied. "The residual effects of an easy childhood and years of clean living."

"Well _excuse me_ , Last Scion of Malfoy," Roxanne rolled her eyes. "I suppose I should defer to you on all matters regarding the rough life." She regretted it just as soon as she said it.

" _Money_ and _privilege_ are not mutually inclusive," was all he said.

"So what should I do, then?" she asked, trying to ignore her frustration.

"Start chipping at your nail varnish," Perry instructed, swooping up from his chair. "Damage your cuticles if you can."

Roxanne sighed and did as suggested but felt uncomfortable with the passive role she'd been playing. It wasn't easy to do as she was told by someone younger, and madder, and more ridiculous than she was. Then again, she had exactly zero experience in any investigative field, and rather appreciated the deal she'd been given. And, if she were being honest, she couldn't help but find the entire concept of his work fascinating.

Then, all at once, Perry was attacking her hair.

"Oi!" she shouted, elbowing him away on reflex. "Is that _oil_?" she demanded, feeling a few greasy locks.

"Olive oil, stay still," he said, trying to accost her again, and again getting swatted away. "We need to make your hair look dirty. Your muggle clothes are all too nice, so just wear what you had on yesterday—at least they'll be wrinkled."

"Fine." She grit her teeth and allowed him grudging access to her hair. Roxanne didn't like people touching her hair on principal. At Hogwarts, her afro had often felt like a black hole for white fingers. Then again, she supposed, it wasn't as if Perry was molesting her hair because he was curious about what it felt like. "Do you think that'll be convincing enough?" she asked while he worked.

"Well you have an advantage," he shrugged.

"Yeah?"

"You're black."

"Oi!" Elbow made contact with ribs, knuckles with shoulder.

Roxanne felt self-conscious in her oily hair and rumpled outfit from the previous day as they marched down Charing Cross Road. Her green tights were stretched and baggy for being worn twice in a row without being washed and the sleeves of her striped jumper bore coffee stains. Perry had even applied dark circles under her eyes with shadow and used her red lip pencil on her waterline. Before, she'd been concerned she wouldn't be believable enough—now, she regretted how convincing the disguise seemed to be. Passers-by made a wide berth of the raggedy duo and every pair of eyes avoided her own. The muggle workforce of London were all about, dressed in their respectable clothes and heading to their respectable jobs. Those that had nowhere to go, or who were still up from the night before, huddled at the edges. The middle-ground of humanity had yet to rise and so the sidewalks were populated only by the gainfully employed, or invisible wretched.

"So you think distribution is focused around the Leaky?" Roxanne asked, wanting to distract herself from the many looks of derision she attracted.

"We have to assume the supplier is a witch or wizard, so the Leaky will be their probable entry-point into the muggle world," Perry reasoned. "During the night I sampled various drug-trade hotspots. The highest concentration appeared to be the Strand area."

"So we just... try to buy it all?" Roxanne clarified.

"Well we can't possibly buy it _all_ , but we can try and get as much off the streets as possible—buy ourselves some time."

"When should we start?" she asked, anxiety creeping under her skin. The closer they got to actually realizing the plan, the more dangerous it started to feel.

"Well, first we need to get a sizable sum of muggle money at Gringotts."

"Um, Perry?" Roxanne said. "Couldn't we have gotten the muggle money _before_ we got into our disguises?"

"Less efficient," he replied around the filter of a cigarette.

"Fucking hell," Roxanne seethed.

Summer was, it turned out, the exact worst time to visit Diagon Alley in a tramp costume. Madame Longbottom was back from Hogwarts and stationed behind the bar at the Leaky Cauldron. Roxanne tried to keep her head down, in the hopes that she might not be recognized, but it was futile. She and her brother had inherited a unique suite of traits and could typically be spotted from many metres away.

"Hello, Roxy dear!" Madame Longbottom waved, but her smile soon faltered. "Is everything alright, love?"

"Yes, fine, inahurry," Roxanne wheezed, trying to keep her cosmetically adjusted eyes out of view, before realizing that the suspicious behavior only amplified the effect of her costume as she hurried past.

The alley itself proved a veritable mine-field for the eldest Johnson-Weasley. She tried not to draw attention to herself while families bustled merrily between the shops, but it was a useless exercise. Tartan mini-skirt, lime green stockings, striped jumper—not to mention the ginger afro. Roxanne Weasley was as far from subtle as a person could be.

The most obvious hazard was her father's joke shop, which opened in a few short hours. The likelihood that her dad and uncle Ron would be kicking about, getting an early breakfast, was high. Then there was Ollivander's, where her cousin Albus would certainly be engaged in his wandmaking internship. He, too, could be anywhere at any time. James would probably be spending the day darting between Flourish and Blott's and the Leaky, scribbling away at his manuscript, while Rose might be meeting with fellow activists for her radio show. Hugo could be doing… whatever Hugo did these days, and Uncle Bill might be drawn to the alley for some meeting at Gringotts.

Thinking about it, Roxanne realized she could run into any number of them. Every member of her family possessed freedom of movement and exercised their locomotive abilities. _Shame_ , she thought.

Perry, for his part, didn't seem affected by the sidelong glances of passers-by. With a pang she realized he'd probably grown up accustomed to scorn. Roxanne determined to stop indulging her own self-pity for her woeful appearance—she hadn't, after all, ever had to experience living under the dark cloud of a name like Malfoy. Daughter to one of the most adored and respected men in England, and niece to living legends, her name had always inspired admiration and respect. She'd been a bright student, driven Healer trainee, and later, a rising star in her field. Even this, appearing in public like she hadn't bathed in a month, couldn't possibly be enough to tarnish her sterling reputation.

Roxanne Weasley's determination didn't last long.

"Roxy, Roxy is that you?" a drawling voice called out, and it took a moment for her to place it. "Goodness Roxy, you look awful."

Christina McLaggen. Christina McLaggen seizing her shoulder. Keeping Roxanne from getting away. Christina McLaggen: her actual nemesis.

"My, you've been out of a job less than a week—I didn't realize how hard it would be for you," Christina said, flipping her clean hair ostentatiously.

"Been enjoying the freedom," Roxanne lied. "Late night out with my mates." She'd intended to twist the knife where a hurt the most: a Healer's pointed lack of a personal life.

Without even asking first, McLaggen reached out for one of Roxanne's oily curls and Roxanne stepped back on instinct. Christina had been one of those girls in Healer training who made liberal use of the word 'ethnic.'

"Well listen, I'm glad I ran into you because I wanted to tell you I _absolutely_ stood up for you during the disciplinary hearing." Christina's lies dripped from her pouting lips like syrup. "I know that the whole thing was Blishwick's fault, as your superior, and all—"

"Listen we're in a hurry—nice seeing you Chrissy," Roxanne cut her off and didn't wait for a reply before storming away.

Perry waited until they were out of earshot before speaking. "You had a disciplinary hearing?"

"That's none of your business," Roxanne replied through clenched teeth.

"And I take it you lost?" Perry pressed on.

"And what makes you say that?" she shot back, bracing herself for another of Perry's invasive, deductive analyses.

"Well, had you won, you wouldn't be out on a Tuesday morning scoring drugs with the Last Scion of Malfoy."

Roxanne repressed a smirk.

Perry withdrew two thousand muggle pounds from Gringotts and Roxanne rushed him out the gates just as soon as he had the banknotes in hand. He'd insisted that they needed to get 'small notes,' lest their clandestine purchases arouse suspicion. 'Small notes' were, it turned out, only small in reference to their spending power. The sheer mass of them proved difficult to manage; Roxanne usually used a credit card when she did muggle shopping. Grumbling, she forced a wad of two hundred individual notes into her skirt pocket, uncomfortably aware of its sum value. More money than it was ever wise to carry on one's person. Most definitely if one's person was intent on quickly coming in contact with other, particularly unsavory, persons.

Bursting out the pub doors back onto Charing Cross Road, and away from the wizarding alley, Roxanne experienced a few seconds of ecstatic relief—but it rapidly dissipated when she remembered what would be coming next. _Anxiety Over Getting Recognized_ soon gave way to _Anxiety Over Getting Jumped by a Drug Dealer_ , and she gulped hard. She instantly regretted the obvious gesture of worry, as the last thing she wanted was to appear nervous in front of _Perry_.

Then again, Perry hadn't proved himself particularly adept at recognizing emotional cues.

"You had an affair!" he blurted out, quite without any segue.

"What? No I didn't!"

"That's why you had the disciplinary hearing. That's why McLaggen was on about Blishwick being your 'superior,'" he speculated, starting on a path away from the main road.

"Wrong and wrong," Roxanne snapped, catching up to him. "It wasn't like that."

"You stole potions," he guessed again.

" _Absolutely_ not, don't be crazy."

"Then why did you lose the disciplinary hearing?" Perry asked.

"I didn't, actually," Roxanne sighed. "I really _did_ quit... Well, I think 'resigned in disgrace' might be a more accurate description," she admitted.

"But why the disciplinary hearing?"

"I—I'm really not supposed to talk about it," she said, bitter memories creeping back out from the region of her brain she'd been trying to ignore.

"Can you give me an idea of the basic shape of the charges?" Perry tried.

"Fine. Malpractice and insubordination," she replied. "I got off on a technicality."

"Which was..."

"The charges were in direct conflict with one another."

"Wait, what?!" Perry spluttered, stopping dead in his tracks as they turned into an alley. Roxanne hadn't even realized they'd been walking. "How is that even possible?" He fretted, frustrated, by the new information. It was clear to Roxanne that he didn't like incongruities in data and she couldn't help but enjoy withholding the mystery from him.

Perry continued to gape as Roxanne took in their surroundings. The alley was everything she had been expecting: thick with the stench of overflowing skips and crusted with graffiti. The orange plungers of syringes peeked out like easter eggs hidden among the scattered rubbish and she had to take care not to tread on any shattered glass pipes. A mangy fox slinked around a chain-link fence, seemingly for dramatic effect. Roxanne couldn't help but feel shocked that a place so seedy might exist just off such a major tourist strip.

Realizing he wouldn't get an answer from her just yet, Perry stepped up to a great industrial door and rapped his knuckles against it. Roxanne hadn't anticipated how much sound it would make and flinched.

And then it opened a crack. A shadowy face emerged.

"What's your business?" the shadows growled.

"I'm looking for that silver stuff," Perry said, making a show of manically scratching his neck.

All at once the door slammed shut with a boom.

The two investigators remained still and silent for the space of a breath. "Did we do it wrong?" Roxanne asked out of the corner of her mouth.

"Not at all," Perry assured her.

The door creaked back open and Roxanne tensed.

"How much you need?" the man on the other side asked.

"What do you have on-hand?" Perry replied, lowering his voice and scanning the alley both ways. Roxanne couldn't help but feel impressed by how convincingly he played his part. He didn't affect an accent, or even really change much of his behavior—rather, slid into the role.

The door snapped shut once more, but before Roxanne could ask what was happening, it opened again. Wide enough to admit the both of them. They passed through an oppressively dark corridor, and then—her breath froze in her lungs.

A gleaming, bustling kitchen. Chefs in neat white uniforms and tall hats chopped and filleted, or flipped skillets such that jumbo prawns leapt into the air glistening with butter. Just as quickly as she had registered the space she was being ushered towards a great steel door; a walk in freezer. Frigid cadavers of a dozen pigs hung from hooks in the ceiling. The contrast against the warm, bubbling kitchen came as a shock to her dizzy mind. Their guide, a dishwasher by the look of him, slammed the door behind them. The gutted carcasses swung from the force of it.

"How much are you looking to spend?" the dishwasher asked, chewing his cheek, arms folded tight across his chest.

"Whatever you have. We're going up north soon, and I need a supply," Perry replied.

"Huh," the dishwasher chuckled. "I can spare ten bags for you. Five quid a piece."

"I'll give you one-fifty for twenty bags," Perry countered.

The dishwasher furrowed his eyebrows as he did the math. "Anybody ever tell you you're a shite negotiator? That's not how people try to play bulk sales."

"I don't care, I need as much as I can get."

"Fine," the dishwasher shook his head, smiling. "Twenty bags for one-fifty." He reached right into the cavity of one of the hanging pigs and dislodged a can. Flipping it upside down revealed a false bottom and then a glimpse of shimmering silver. Perry handed over his muggle money and the dishwasher handed over a handful of plastic and death—a mere fraction of what still remained in the can.

"How much for the rest?" Perry asked, not looking up from the bags he was counting.

"Can't give you any more—hotel needs this on hand for guests." The dishwasher had gone back to chewing his cheek.

Perry only shrugged, and pushed the contraband into his pocket. When his hand came back out, it gripped his wand.

" _Stupefy_!"

The dishwasher crumpled to the ground in a flash of red.

"Take the rest," Perry instructed. With surprising calm Roxanne dumped the remaining stash into her rucksack.

 _We have magic_ , she reminded herself.

She peered inside the hollowed pig just in case but found nothing. Perry crouched down and directed his wand to the unconscious dishwasher.

" _Ennervate_ ," he incanted.

The young man blinked, confused, but was obliviated within seconds.

"You sold me the whole supply for a big mark-up," Perry fed the man the false memory. "But you pocketed that money, and will lie to your superiors that it all got doled out as planned. When you get home, you'll discover the money is missing and blame yourself for losing it. You will continue to tell all who work here that I am an excellent customer."

With the memory modification complete Roxanne and Perry left the disorientated dishwasher and made their way back out into the alley. They didn't speak for several minutes, nerves still crackling with adrenaline.

"What did you mean, 'continue to tell' the people that work there that you were a good customer?" Roxanne finally asked.

Perry stabbed a cigarette between his lips and gave her a look that seemed to say _proceed_. She remembered at once that he had experience in cross-examination and began to second guess herself.

"Well, 'continue' seems like... I dunno."

"Yes, well, if I had _indeed_ over-paid, rather than _robbing_ him, he _would_ have said that. So I told him to _continue_ to say that, as he _would_ have done."

Roxanne started to feel confused by the semantics. "It just sounded a bit, the way you phrased it, like you already knew him."

"How would you have had me phrase it?" Perry countered.

Roxanne didn't have an answer and tried a different strategy: "How did you know to try there?"

"Nice hotels always have drugs," he shrugged. "This isn't my first investigation."

The next few hours were less eventful. They moved in concentric circles out from the epicenter of the Leaky Cauldron, visiting more dodgy corners, back-rooms, and alleys than Roxanne could ever have imagined existed. The further out they spiraled the more willing, even eager, the dealers were to part with their wares.

"Do you think you know how to spot one now?" Perry asked after Roxanne had negotiated her first few transactions. "They won't look like users so much. Rough, but with a few affectations. Expensive trainers or jewelry. People make the mistake of thinking they'll be minorities—they're usually white."

"Yeah, I think I've got the hang of it," she nodded. They were the kind of loitering gangs that usually glared at her when she passed, when her hair was clean and her manicure intact. An entire sector of humanity she'd subconsciously ignored her entire life. But dressed as she was, they made eye contact. Jerked back their heads. If she scratched her neck enough, they would toss out coded slang words until one of them stuck.

The two investigators shared a curt nod before Roxanne turned north into Regent's Park. The sun had reached the top of the sky and little insects glittered like motes of dust above the grass. The gardens should have been beautiful. Roxanne should have enjoyed the weather and the picturesque greenery made robust by heavy rains that spring. Instead, she saw only the telltale detritus that told her she was approaching her prey: discarded needles, pipes, plastic bags. She reminded herself over and over that she was, indeed, working with the government; saving people.

Earlier in the day, Roxanne would forget herself, instinctively offering smiles to mothers pushing prams or shopkeepers opening for the day. Each time she was forcibly reminded of her disguise by their horror-struck faces. But the more nasty glances she received from Contributors to Society, the better she got on with the dealers and addicts. Their absence of judgement was coming more and more as a relief to her.

"'Ello gorgeous, you need somthan?" a youth called out from a nearby park bench. Roxanne began her routine of neck scratching and shuffling closer. The dealer had an unfortunate bowl-cut and a freshly split lip. "I got that real class A shit, right," he promised.

Roxanne played her part. The youths had three bags on hand. They could get more. In minutes, she was following them up the Camden High Street. She didn't know where they were going but the dealers seemed keen to crack jokes and make conversation. Roxanne fretted as she walked.

 _What are you doing?_

 _What are you thinking?_

 _Who are you?_

She pushed aside her misgivings and focused on her goal and mission.

"Where you from then?" the bloody-mouthed boy asked as he lit a fag. Up close, she noticed a field of freckles over his nose and cheeks.

"London," she shrugged, steeling herself for the inevitable follow up question: _but where are you from_ _ **originally.**_ She'd learnt the steps to this dance while she was still a girl—strangers were always dissatisfied to hear that her mother's family was from Shoreditch. They would push and press until they got the words that amounted to their answer; _Kingston, Jamaica._ Then they would ask her about current events in the Caribbean, as if she should have some insight into a country she had never visited. But grandpa Johnson had been a muggle and a Rude Boy. His experience had had more to do with slim ties and two-tone ska than whatever third world fantasies white interrogators wanted to hear corroborated.

"Where abouts in London?" the youth asked instead, to Roxanne's surprise.

"Isle of Dogs," she replied before she could think better of it. A small wizarding community had been living in what appeared to be a complex of disused warehouses for almost a hundred years.

"Yeah? I got mates 'round there!" he grinned.

Roxanne chose better than to claim she'd grown up in a nearby tenement, realizing she didn't know enough to make her story convincing. The boy retreated, noticing her reticence, and changed the subject. _Respectfully?_

They snaked away from the main street and then made an abrupt stop before turning into a shop. It wasn't unlike the many others in Camden—cramped, and over-crowded with cheap merchandise. Indeed, it stocked the same identically distressed leather jackets as at least a dozen stores they'd passed already. Roxanne followed the youths down the steep stairwell into the basement where a pair of weathered-looking white women with dreadlocks stacked an imposing heap of, likely dodgy, merchandise. The women glared at Roxanne with suspicion as she emerged in the gloom.

"She's alright, Mum," said the teenager with the bowl-cut. "Here for the Silver."

The more imposing of the women studied Roxanne for several excruciating seconds and Roxanne tried not to let her gaze drift to the woman's facial tattoos. Then the woman nodded, shifting the dolly of stolen goods. Behind it, a hidden door. Roxanne followed the teenager through.

The space was narrow and humid, reeking of sweat and blood and other bodily effusions. An emaciated woman lay motionless on a bare, stained mattress. She looked more like a pile of skin and hair than a person. One scabbed, swollen arm lolled onto the floor. A young man reclined against the damp, windowless wall, nodding off behind his curtain of greasy hair. Another person of indeterminate sex and age composed little more than a curled up heap in the farthest corner. The room felt too small for so much despair.

"Here we are, then," the boy said after rifling through the rubbish on the tacky floor. His voice wasn't loud, but it still shocked Roxanne. She felt, somehow, like one shouldn't speak above a whisper in this crypt-like place. "That's all of them," he grinned, handing over fifty-odd bags. He seemed pleased with himself. Wholly unaffected by the atmosphere. He had the expression of someone who'd completed a job well done. "You can spike up here if you fancy," he offered... _kindly?_ "We can shift you some room on the bed."

It took Roxanne a moment to realize that he was referring to the horrific mattress. "No thank you," she replied, too formally, she knew. He looked dejected.

Once he'd completed counting out the cash she turned around back through the hidden door, past the piles of leather jackets, and up the stairs. She stepped back into the bright day and didn't stop to let her eyes adjust to the light before marching away. She walked for blocks—one, and then two, and then she lost track. After a while (she wasn't sure how long) she let herself stop. And then she cried.

One tendril of smoke spiraled up through the air from the end of Perry's cigarette. Roxanne's tired eyes followed its twisting journey.

"It isn't a sustainable strategy," he said from his armchair after a long silence. "This haul is off the streets for now, but in the long run, we've only increased demand in the supplier's eyes. In a week's time, London will be flooded with three times as much Silver."

His cigarette was tipped by more than two centimeters of cylindrical ash. Roxanne wondered how long until it finally broke off onto the carpet.

She'd scrubbed and scrubbed under the terrible water pressure of the Baker street shower, scouring the grease from her hair until it was a frizzy mess, but she hadn't been able to rinse off the residue of that day. Too tired to do anything else, she huddled in the second armchair with her comfiest t-shirt pulled over her knees.

Roxanne couldn't remember ever having been so exhausted. They'd walked miles and miles, spoken to the most terrible people, and seen the most hellish things. It had been more grueling even than her residency. And there hadn't been anything she could do for those people, hidden away in that basement. No potions to administer, no room for her to keep her cover and also check their vital signs. That dealer— _that child_ —she'd just left him there to return to a life where he wasn't even shocked by horror…

The sunset looked bloody beyond the sitting room window.

Roxanne went to bed without saying goodnight.

"Weasley, Weasley," the persistent beat of the words broke her from her slumber—had she fallen asleep? She'd only just lain down. _But that couldn't be right._ The room had been bathed in red light when she'd crawled under the covers. Opening her eyes, it was black as tar.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, confused.

"Just after midnight," Perry replied, excited. "Where's the stash you got from the hotel?"

"My ruckie," she said, rolling back over.

The room blazed suddenly bright. Roxanne had no idea that so subtle a gesture as flicking a light switch could be so violent.

"Sorry," Perry shrunk. "Where's your bag?"

Roxanne groaned and crawled to the end of the bed to scoop up her rucksack from the moth-eaten carpet. It was full to brimming with little shimmering bags. The sight of them made her nauseous.

"Grab one of the ones we nicked off the hotel," Perry said, eyes bulging with anticipation as he rocked gently back and forth. He might have been a child at Christmas. Some sort of terrible, perverse Christmas.

Too tired to play into his Socratic game, Roxanne plunged one hand into the depths of the rucksack where the earliest bags had fallen. She retracted it at once. Something felt _slimy._ "Eurgh! They've leaked!" she shouted, holding her contaminated hand away from her face like it might explode.

"Does it feel sticky?"

"N—no," Roxanne considered, then rubbed her fingers together. "It feels greasy."

"And I'll assume that at no point did you rub the bags of narcotics against your head."

"Hah, hah," she said, considering the oily material. Roxanne had spent enough time brewing potions to recognize that the compound wasn't animal fat, but for some reason she wanted to say that it was. Something about the smell seemed familiar, yet she couldn't place it. Perhaps it had been something she'd encountered during potions class at Hogwarts... She had the sensation that she'd been young when she'd first smelled it.

"Is it toxic?" she asked after some consideration.

"I don't think so," Perry frowned. "Let's see."

Before Roxanne had time to think, or guess what he would do, he licked the oil off her pointer finger.

"Eurgh!" she cried again, retracting her hand, if possible, more quickly than she'd done before.

Perry just smacked his lips, totally unperturbed, while she wiped her assaulted hand on her bedspread.

"It's salty," he noted.

A pause, and then he lunged for her rucksack, burying his face in the mass of plastic bags and inhaling deeply.

"What are you _doing_?" Roxanne screamed, slapping at the back of his head with her hands. "Stop it! That can't be safe!"

"I know this smell," he withdrew his head, his face a mask of giddy triumph. "Let's go."

Roxanne had done little more than throw on a pair of fur-lined-boots and a hoodie before tearing out the door after Perry. They walked through the electric night, alive with weekend revelers and couples at the ends of promising dates. Perry would stride meaningfully down a street, stop abruptly, then turn back. He seemed to be quite literally following his nose.

"Do you have any idea where you're going?" Roxanne asked after several minutes of jilted wandering.

"Generally, yes," he replied with unwavering confidence. "I know that smell. I've smelled that smell. You know about Olfactory memory I'm sure? Or maybe not. Healing doesn't generally include more advanced fields of biology or neuroscience. Smell is associated with memory—well, we remember smells differently—or… better. If I could just jog something... Give me your ruckie."

Roxanne had been cradling the satchel of contraband like an infant to her breast. In full view of the street, Perry opened the rucksack containing thousands of pounds of drugs to inhale more of that oily smell.

"This way," he directed just as soon as he came up for air.

Roxanne wasn't even tired anymore. All at once, Perry went at a run.

"Here!" he shouted and she broke into a jog after him. "This is it! It must be coming from here!" He held his arms out wide, face jubilant under the glittering lights of a cinema marquis. "This might be the epicenter of the manufacturing… or," Perry stuck a cigarette between his teeth and started to pace. "But this isn't anywhere near the Leaky Cauldron. If the foreign material is coming from this location…"

All at once, Roxanne realized what the oil was.

"It's popcorn butter!" she cried.

Perry rolled his eyes. "Don't be daft, you know as well as I do that that material isn't butter."

"No, not _real_ butter. _Popcorn_ butter," Roxanne explained. "They use it at every muggle cinema. Or at fairs, or carnivals—really anywhere you can buy popcorn."

"Well," Perry bit his lip, deflating. "But.. why?"

"Why use fake butter on popcorn? I suppose it's more cost effective—"

"No, why is it on the bags? There's traces of it on every one, but the larger yields we found have more residue. The yields that were closer to the epicenter—to the supplier."

A theory began to click together in Roxanne's mind. "Cinemas are basically big dark rooms," she began. "They stay dark for two hours, sometimes more. So long as you don't draw attention to yourself, no one will even look at you—everyone stays faced the same direction."

"Wait—what? That sounds terrible," Perry scrunched up his face. "Why do people go to these?"

"That bit isn't important just yet," Roxanne waved her hands. "I'm thinking that the main supplier sets up shop at the cinema and doles out stashes during the film hidden in bags of popcorn. It's the perfect place for people to assemble without being seen together!"

"You. Are. Brilliant!" Perry cried, and in a show of tremendous enthusiasm he seized Roxanne around the waist and swung her round in a circle.

"There can't be too many cinemas within a reasonable radius of the Leaky Cauldron," Roxanne panted once he'd set her down.

"Miss Weasley," Perry said with mock formality. "Are you implying that we should conduct a stake-out?"

"Yes, Mr. Hume, I believe I am."

Six owls. Six owls pecking, scratching, and hooting in Roxanne's bedroom when she returned home from their thrilling discovery. Six owls with six letters, signifying six unique family members.

 _Roxy,  
I'm going to assume that everything is just fine, because I know you. Do write, though. Your mum's in a fit about your hair..._

 _Roxanne,_  
 _How are you holding up, honey? Let me know if you need anything at all. We're all here for you..._

 _Xan,_  
 _what the hell is going on? why are you hanging round scorpius madman malfoy? like, I realize you lost your job and all in some bloody great scandal, but pull your shit together, girl. your hair is like—I can't even..._

 _Roxanne,_  
 _Whatever you do, don't read this evening's_ Prophet. _Trust me, it's always better to just ignore it. However frustrating it might seem at the time, it always blows over, and you'll be happier to just skip it all together..._

 _Rox,_  
 _So I know better than to believe what that Skeeter woman writes and everything, but I SAW you in Diagon today. You looked well out of it, and you we're acting all furtive like. AND you didn't even come say HI to me, even though you KNEW I'd be there. I demand all of your excuses..._

 _Roxy,_  
 _Do you think you could swing by the Ministry tomorrow? We don't usually ask Perry to come by, but technically I'm not asking him—I'm asking you. He can tag along if he must. There have been developments, but I can't write about it here. Long story short, we need your expertise. I would have called in Blishwick for a consult, but I'd rather keep him at a distance if I can right now._

 _And your Aunt Ginny informs me that you've gotten splashed onto the_ Evening Prophet _—bad luck. Be glad it's the evening edition, a small mercy. Rest assured that I'd never read such a thing. I recommend you follow my lead—but I imagine Hermione's already owled her warning._

 _With this news in mind, I'll open the direct Floo line from Baker Street to the Auror office—the line should be open between 16:00 and 17:00._

 _Lots of Love,_  
 _Harry_

Roxanne flung herself back onto her bed, feeling everything in the world like a moody teenager. _I'm almost thirty-years-old_ , she reminded herself. _Why must they treat me like a child?_ Even just thinking it, she realized how childish it sounded.

She rolled over and pulled her duvet over her head, as though it might block out her creeping panic about what The _Prophet_ might have written. She resolved not to read it—to let it just blow over, as Aunt Hermione had suggested.

"Weasley!" Perry shouted from the sitting room. "Have you seen the _Evening Prophet_?"

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** _Enormous thanks to my betas, Crestwood and Mymischiefmanaged at HPFF. This story is a million times better, and freer of grammar derps, for all of their help!_

Anyone have any guesses on who each of the letters were from? It's hardly an important point, but I do have it all worked out! (And theoretically, one might be able to match up each letter to each character as the story progresses, but I'm not sure why one would :P)

 _xoxo  
Roisin_


	4. Stakeout!

**Stakeout!**

* * *

 _Who is Roxanne Johnson-Weasley? Until today, she was little more than a footnote. An exotic beauty, to be sure, with striking strawberry curls set against a chocolatey complexion—but never the center of a photograph. A promising young Healer, with a handful of professional accomplishments—but largely unspectacular within such a competitive field. While Roxanne might have been called 'a star on the rise,' she'd been a dull one._

A great deal of the fault lays with her immediate family, who while possessing a great deal of raw charisma, hardly stand up to the notoriety of the rest of her clan. Angelina Johnson's previous Quidditch career might have been a point of interest in the story of Roxanne Weasley, but the Quidditch-Mum trope is just

so _Ginny Potter. Her twin brother, Freddie has done little himself to attract public interest, but at least he's gay, and has managed to show up on a handful of red carpets wearing something fabulous. The same can't be said for Roxanne. She was definitely a far cry from cousin, Rose Weasley, who captivates readers with her easy toggle between Activist Bookworm and Party-Girl Vixen. Or James Potter, the aspiring novelist (read: marijuana enthusiast), whose sexual misadventures could fill many books. She never played in a rock band, like power-couple 'Tedoire.' She didn't even have a stripper for a mum (for those of you keeping track at home, I'm talking about Molly and Lucy). At age twenty-eight, the 'Wizard Wheezes' heiress hadn't warranted more than few sentences by The_ Prophet _, and seemed doomed to live out her days in humdrum obscurity. That is, until last week._

On Thursday, July 11, 2030, 'Foxy' Roxy Weasley set a course to become the reigning Queen Trainwreck of the Potter-Weasley-Granger-Johnson-Delacour-Tang-Whatever tribe (let's all just agree to keep calling them the 'Wotters,' even if the term does have too heavy a Harry bias). But it would take until today, in the early hours of the morning, for Roxy's star to supernova—and trust me, the light was blinding.

So I already told you that Roxy had been a talented Healer at St. Mungo's. So talented, in fact, that she was rumoured to be a candidate for early tenure. Weasley's work started gaining attention at the tender age of 24, and she had her first solo study published that same year in the

British Journal of Healing Arts _. Shortly thereafter, she took on world renowned Diagnostic Potioneer, Rudyard Blishwick, as her mentor, and the world of Healing erupted in (very dull) chatter about what the two might accomplish together._

So what went wrong? What always goes wrong. A beautiful, naive young woman. A ruthless, experienced older man. Close quarters. Within a year, she was broken from the affair—even dipping into her own potions supply, sources say. After two years, family and friends barely recognized the creature that had taken over the once bright, generous, friendly, (if unremarkable), Roxanne Weasley.

'It was obvious to everyone that Roxy was "Drowning" [abusing potions],' a source from St. Mungo's told The

Prophet _. 'She just went crazy.'_

Indeed, Roxy's behavior eventually became so disruptive that she was tried in a full disciplinary hearing on multiple charges. On at least one occasion, she violently attacked an unnamed co-worker. Allegations soon followed that she'd long since grown paranoid, and had threatened the lives of any colleagues she believed might have been conspiring against her.

'She told me that she would get her uncle, Harry Potter, to kill me with his mind,' our source confessed. 'I was terrified.'

Despite so many charges laid against 'Foxy' Roxy (including, but not limited to, intentionally harming her patients with illegal and life threatening poisons), the rogue Healer got off 'on a technicality.' (The precise nature of this technicality is unclear, but this journalist can't help but point you back to the passage about her inappropriate affair with her boss.) Roxy resigned the very next day.

'Well she had to,' another Healer explained. 'Sure, they couldn't fire her after the hearing. But they could scale back all of her hours and responsibilities to zero for as long as they wanted—and that means no salary, either. It's really the same thing as getting sacked.'

So Roxy left St. Mungo's on Friday and the whole thing promised to disappear under a nice little cover up (she is a Weasley, after all). All Roxanne had to do was keep to herself and stay out of trouble for a little while. But Foxy Roxy had other plans.

'She told me she'd been on a bender,' a close friend told The

Prophet _this morning. 'Her eyes were all red and puffy, and she looked like she hadn't showered in weeks. It was awful seeing her like that.'_

Witnesses saw Roxy spend the morning stumbling through Diagon alley, avoiding friends and family, seemingly with the singular purpose of cleaning out her Gringotts account (this journalist shudders to think how she plans to spend that gold.) Most disturbingly, Roxy seems to have a new boyfriend: none other than infamous addict, Scorpius Malfoy. The two were photographed the day before—note that Roxy rocked the same outfit two days in a row, confirming speculation that she spent the night with him.

Malfoy's influence upon this once-sweet girl shouldn't be understated. As a member of one of the last extant major Death Eater families, Scorpius Malfoy is a constant physical reminder of the ever-present threat of returning to Dark Times. And while the Malfoy family were cleared of all charges (upon the recommendation of Harry Potter, no less), many found their exoneration troubling. Could the Malfoys, indeed, be so powerful as to threaten The Boy Who Lived himself? Are they capable of bending the Savior of Wizardingkind to their whims? Are we comfortable with the Last Scion of Malfoy shacking up with Harry Potter's niece?

While we know their relationship is a fact today, we have no idea when it might have started. Is it possible that Scorpius Malfoy was the very architect of dear Roxanne's downfall? Might he have gotten her hooked on the potions in the first place? Could he have pressured her into stealing ingredients from work? Would he go so far as to manipulate her into seducing Rudyard Blishwick for his own personal gain? Only time will tell.

Malfoy's struggles with wild behavior and substance should be familiar to any

Prophet _reader. With that in mind, I encourage everyone to send positive thoughts to Ms. Roxanne Weasley, and pray that she manages to get away from his negative influence before it's too late._

"What the actual fuck?" Roxanne spluttered once Perry finished reading. She'd gone to bed the night before determined to avoid Skeeter's article, but her resolve was never strong before coffee. Cup number two grew cold in her hands as she calculated the cost-to-benefit ratio of hiring a hitwizard.

"Better or worse than what you'd anticipated?" Perry asked.

"I dunno, neither?" she replied, dumbstruck. " _Crazier_?"

She hadn't expected how rapidly the article would shift gears. In the end, her so-called 'story' had been just another vehicle to demonize Perry and posit him as the villain behind the already slanderous allegations.

"One question," he smirked, tearing his eyes away from the paper. "Did you really threaten someone with your uncles' _mind_?"

"Oh god, that. Not my finest moment," Roxanne shook her head as she put the kettle on to boil. "It was years ago—during Healer training. McLaggen kept messing with me and I pulled a 'do you know who I _am_ ' thing on her—which was immature and embarrassing in a thousand ways. But I never _threatened_ her. I said something about how my family were the Greatest Minds of a Generation some bollocks. Just puffing myself up."

Perry peered down at the article once more. "Stripper aunt?"

"Old news."

"How about you not having a choice but to resign from St. Mungo's?"

"That, unfortunately," she pursed her lips. "Was pretty accurate."

He went down the list asking Roxanne to confirm or deny (mostly deny) the various allegations charged against herself and her family. Perry was remarkably energetic considering the early hour. And he'd still been up when she'd gone to bed the night before. Now she thought on it, judging by his sallow complexion and darkly circled eyes, he may not have slept at all.

It was only her first proper morning at Baker Street, but the intensity of her brief time there thus far had already made it feel more like home. And she'd been pleased to discover that Mrs. Hudson had kept up cleaning away any grime beneath all the rubbish. A quick tidy of the kitchen revealed a more pleasant atmosphere than Roxanne had expected. Once the refrigerator had been decontaminated (she had significant experience disposing of biohazardous materials), they had a proper shot at a functioning living space.

The early sunlight streamed in through the kitchen windows as the kettle whistled, and Roxanne decided she ought to switch to tea. Perry's supply of coffee best resembled petrol and his French Press was so ancient that bitter grounds escaped into every cup. He continued reading his newspaper, one agitated foot crossed over his knee, bouncing rhythmically.

' _Infamous addict._ '

The words echoed over and over like a song stuck in her head. _Two nights without sleep._ Roxanne's eyes narrowed but her suspicions soon gave way to guilt. Hadn't she been slandered in precisely the same way, without any justification or basis in reality? It seemed hypocritical of her to take Skeeter's allegations about Perry to heart when she herself was so hurt by the unfair charges set against her.

She figured she might as well ask, and hear Perry's side of things...

"Fancy a cup of tea?" she said instead. She hadn't known Perry long, but in that time she'd seen how sensitive he could be. Thinking about it, she didn't need to look further than her own kitchen table to see what might have given people the 'drug addict' impression. He certainly wasn't a _normal_ person.

"We have _tea_?!" he span round in his chair.

"What did you think…? The kettle...?" she shook her head. "I'm also making toast, if you'd like any."

"Ace," he said, returning to his paper. "I like what she did with the whole star and supernova bit," Perry offered after a pause. "Very poetic."

"It was, wasn't it?" Roxanne agreed, blowing on her tea.

In the sober light of day the prospect of a stakeout had lost most of its appeal. Perry had advised Roxanne to dress in her most business-like muggle clothes and so she frowned into her closet searching for anything that might qualify. Her only muggle suit had rather an eccentric cut with the added flaw of being a fierce shade of canary yellow. Tapping it a few times with her wand she affected a colour-change charm and watched the silk darken into a coal grey. Once adjusted, its angular shoulders appeared less dramatic.

Unwrapping her silk sleeping turban, Roxanne regretted having slept those few hours without braiding her curls back or misting them, as she did every night, with conditioning potion. Since she was trying for a professional look anyway, she decided to weave her abused hair into a collection of long box-braids to be tied back into an elegant twist. It didn't take long with the help of a braiding charm, and once finished, Roxanne looked all of her twenty-eight years.

Perry sucked on a cigarette in the sitting room, already buttoned into a finely tailored three-piece which he tugged at with disdain. He'd shaved and back-combed his mop of shaggy, dishwater-blond hair in a passing impersonation of a Normal Human Being. His sleep deprivation even came as an added benefit, and he too looked like he might be approaching thirty.

"Ready?" he asked, leaping from his armchair, and Roxanne nodded.

"Nice suit," she said. Perry shrugged off the compliment and grumbled something about his father.

Once they'd apparated into central London, Roxanne and Perry set up in a cafe opposite the Pall Mall Odeon—the closest cinema to the Leaky Cauldron. Enthusiasm ebbed with each passing minute.

"We don't even know if this is the right cinema," Roxanne said for the tenth time, eyeing her greyish cappuccino with distaste. The Odeon had just opened for that day's matinees, but they hadn't yet seen any activity. And anyway, she seriously doubted that the supplier would be doling out Silver during a weekday screening of a sci-fi film.

"Well it's still better than staking out the Baker Street sitting room," Perry pointed out, gaze fixed on a group of youths buying tickets at the kiosk.

"So, what are your parents like?" Roxanne asked, taking a delicate sip of her coffee and regretting it. The scalded milk had developed a filmy membrane.

"Boring," was all he said.

"Are they still together?" she tried.

"Merlin no," he scoffed. "They were barely married in the first place."

"Oh?" Certainly, Perry was allowed his privacy, but they were working together, after all, and flatmates to boot. It struck her as unfair that he might know so much about her family and she so little about his.

"The room might as well be empty if they're both in it," he went on. "They end up crossing paths at big occasions—when I started Hogwarts, when I got kicked out of Hogwarts, that sort of thing. They're incredibly awkward around one another."

"What do they do? For a living?"

"Very little," Perry rolled his eyes. "Old Man Malfoy—my grandfather—kept hold of the family's assets after the war. Hid his business interests inside shell companies controlled by foreign corporations and all that. It keeps the 'Death Eater' stigma from being a problem."

"And your mum?" Roxanne pressed.

At this, Perry barely suppressed a snort. "Mum just hangs around Greengrass manor and changes her clothes about ten times a day. One outfit for lounging, one for supper, three for each step of brushing one's teeth…"

"Where did you grow up? Malfoy Manor or Greengrass?"

"Neither," Perry kept his eyes trained on the cinema. "Father has a flat here in London."

They ordered lunch shortly after noon—two droopy-looking sandwiches on soggy white bread—as an excuse to stay in the cafe. So far, the only visitors to the theater had been teenagers on summer holiday, au pairs with small children, or tourists.

"I'm gonna say it again," Roxanne wheezed. "We don't even know this is the right place."

"True," Perry finally agreed. "Let's go." With that, he bounded up from the greasy formica table and pushed through the door to the street.

"What? Just like that?" Roxanne huffed, scrambling after him.

"Not quite, follow me," he said before jaywalking into the road. Roxanne reluctantly followed behind, weaving to avoid oncoming cars and minicabs.

"What _is_ it?" she demanded once outside the Pall Mall Odeon.

Perry ignored her, and instead strode purposefully towards an old tramp who was just setting himself up on the corner.

"Skoz, mate, how've you been?" he greeted the raggedy man.

"Oi Perry—din' recognize you dressed like tha'," the tramp smiled.

"That's the idea, I'm working a case," Perry shoved his hands in his pockets. "And this is Roxanne, my associate. Roxanne, meet Skoz: among the most well-informed men in London."

"Erm, how do you do?" Roxanne inclined her head but didn't offer her hand.

"How long have you been round here?" Perry addressed the tramp again.

"Las' few weeks, I been," the man named 'Skoz' replied. "You want ter know if I seen summat?"

Perry described what he was looking for: _oddly dressed people, maybe seeming confused, using strange words._ Skoz agreed that he'd seen just that, and the investigators shared a thrilling glance, certain they had found a lead.

That is, until Roxanne looked up and read the metre-high letters on the cinema marquis: Star Wars Episode LXIV. It took her a moment to explain the concept of muggle film fans to Perry.

"Plan B then," he sighed, passing over a plastic carrier bag.

"Erm, what exactly do you intend I do with this?" Roxanne asked, pulling out a plastic toy Sherriff's badge.

Perry borrowed Skoz's cardboard sign as a shield and tapped the fancy-dress accessory with his wand. _Detective Sergeant Philippa Anderson / Metropolitan Police Service / New Scotland Yard_ , it read once he'd finished. Then he flashed her his own badge: _Detective Inspector George Lestrade._

"There's a reason we wore suits," he explained.

Buoyed by his own cleverness, Perry swaggered purposefully into the cinema. He was soon distracted by a three-dimensional projection of popcorn and soda splashing merrily over the snack stand. Distracted, Perry crashed into a woman speaking to the ticket-taker. She found her footing and whipped around, seeming keen to give Perry a telling off, but her furious face soon softened into an expression of shocked glee.

Perry had just literally run into none other than gossip journalist, Marga Skeeter.

"Roxanne Weasley!" the reporter found her composure and offered a toothy grin.

Roxanne had only ever seen her in black and white—a thumbnail sized photo leering from beside her wicked articles. In life, Marga Skeeter dressed more colorfully than even Roxanne herself, as if certain shades of the rainbow might feel left out if they hadn't been included. The journalist had paired aggressively pink lipstick with peacock eyelids, and Roxanne resented that she envied her magenta jacket.

"I take it you've seen my little profile in The _Prophet_?" One gold tooth glittered in Marga's artificial smile. "If there's anything you'd like to comment on—maybe set the record straight? I'd love your perspective." In a flash, Marga had her heirloom quill poised at the ready.

"No comment," Roxanne said through tight lips. It was a clever trick—coercing her into making a statement by offering a redaction—but Roxanne wouldn't be having any of it.

"So there's nothing about the piece you took issue with?" Marga raised an encouraging eyebrow.

"Oh there's a great deal I took issue with," Roxanne forced a smile. "But I still won't be making a statement."

"So are you two on a date then?" Marga asked, eyeing Perry. His jaw still hadn't finished dropping from the shock of seeing her.

"No. What are _you_ doing here?" Roxanne countered.

"Working on a story. How long have you two been seeing each other, then?" Marga pivoted.

"We aren't." Roxanne was losing focus of who was interrogating whom. "What's your story about?"

"Well, you of course," Marga replied.

Roxanne's jaw joined Perry's on the floor.

They returned, frustrated, to Baker Street later that afternoon.

"So—is Marga Skeeter a suspect now?" Roxanne demanded, more of the universe than of Perry.

"I suppose she has to be," he sighed, collapsing into his armchair and fishing for a cigarette. "But I'll admit, I don't like her for it."

They'd spent longer than Roxanne would have liked talking to the reporter. Both parties had tried to outlast the other, and both had had designs on interrogating the cinema employees. In the end, Roxanne and Perry had slouched back to the cafe across the street—and Roxanne had gulped down another hideous espresso—while they waited for Marga Skeeter to leave.

The gum-chewing Odeon cashier hadn't been pleased by a second bout of questioning. They'd gotten next to nothing out of the whole ordeal, outside of the employee's tepid promise to actually turn on their security cameras so the marauding Deputy Inspectors could review the footage later in the week.

And Roxanne still wasn't sure it was even the right cinema.

She supposed it might mean something that Marga Skeeter had been there, but she couldn't tell what.

At four o' clock, Perry tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the hearth and the two set off to the Ministry using the specially opened line. After having seen the lascivious implications in the previous evening's _Prophet_ , Roxanne felt particularly relieved that her uncle had arranged for a direct connection to the Auror Office. At the same time, she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had read the article after all. Not that it would really matter if he had—Harry was better informed about the situation than anyone outside Roxanne herself. But those few remarks that had carried seeds of truth still stung her.

"It's getting worse," Auror Finch-Fletchley offered without preamble just as soon as she and Perry had taken their seats in the briefing chamber. "Wizarding death toll has reached four as of last night, not to mention everyone that's been hospitalized. And we have confirmation that the substance is indeed being distributed in muggle London. So far, we've been intercepting any cases, but it's only a matter of time..."

"Yes, we know about muggle London," Roxanne nodded and Perry dithered to her left.

"How?" demanded Auror Finch-Fletchley, accusation tinging his voice.

"We investigated," Roxanne replied before she could stop herself. She found it difficult to find any justification for lying, not in public health matter, and not when her uncle was in the room. Despite how much people had begun to rave in recent years that his accomplishments had been exaggerated, or that they weren't truly impressive, Roxanne still had faith in Harry Potter. She knew him, and he was nothing if not a reasonable man.

Perry, on the other hand, didn't seem to share her opinion, as evidenced by the pressure of his elbow against her ribs.

"Don't tell me," Finch-Fletchley said, scrubbing his face with his hands. "That you have a significant amount of this material in your possession."

"Very well," Perry replied evenly. "We don't have a significant amount of this material in our possession."

The auror slammed his fist against the table. "Don't get clever with me, Malfoy!"

"Hume," Harry corrected in an undertone.

The suffocating moment hung in the air like smoke.

"Time is critical," Harry broke the silence. "Let's move on to why you are here."

Roxanne nodded, hoping very much that she hadn't foolishly jeopardized the situation by following Perry's wild whims.

"As we've mentioned, the death toll is rising—muggle deaths are of particular concern, for reasons that should be obvious," Harry went on. "But outside of the risk to the Statute, my primary concern is saving lives. We need an antidote."

"Well," Roxanne began slowly. "Pixie milk toxicity is easily treated with a bezoar—but for the muggle compound... We could try treating it as any magical poison—develop an antidote derived from substances that counteract its constituent parts. It would mean lifting the moratorium against permits to study muggle compounds, and then we'd still need to secure those permits, but given the seriousness of the issue—"

"Impossible," Perry sniffed. "Even if we got past the moratorium, the chemical makeup of black tar is just too inconsistent. The components and their relative proportions vary too much from batch to batch, so no one antidote will treat every iteration."

"Well then what do we do?" Roxanne asked, controlling her tone as her frustration mounted.

"Narcan," he muttered.

"Sorry?" Harry asked.

"Narcan. Naloxone," Perry repeated in a low voice. "It's an opioid antagonist. It's not a true antidote but—yeah, it's an antidote. Just think of it as an antidote."

"Do we know if it contra-indicates bezoars?" Roxanne asked.

"Of course not," Perry replied, tapping his fingertips against the oak table. "Narcan hasn't been studied outside a muggle lab. The medication is still relatively new—Wizards wouldn't have even heard of it until well after your aunt's Anti-Muggle-Meddling legislation."

"Well we need to treat both toxins for an effective antidote," Roxanne fretted. "But the combination could easily be lethal on its own."

"I worried it would be something like that," Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair. "So, how dangerous is this black tar stuff?"

"Exceedingly," Perry said delicately. "Dosage is less consistent than with powder-form heroin, so the risk of overdose is much increased. The viscosity of the material causes the blood vessels to harden and clog. Subcutaneous injection—into the skin, rather than into a vein—is much more… convenient, so infection is a serious concern. As for how it is enhanced by pixie milk," Perry leaned his chair back onto its back legs. "I have no idea."

"Alright," Harry concluded. "Thank you very much. Both of you. Perry, do you think I could have a moment alone with my niece?"

"Yes," he replied, dropping back down. "But!" The front to chair legs landed with a clatter. "I request a moment alone with your niece _first_."

"Perry, I think that I should be able—"

"Excuse me," Roxanne interrupted, raising her hand rather foolishly as she did. "Are you two _negotiating_? About who _I_ speak to and in what order?"

Silence.

"I think that should be up to me to decide," she pointed out as calmly as she could.

Both men leaned back in their chairs. Both attempted to make his own telepathic case. Only Perry gave her a ridiculous, squinting side-eye.

"I'll speak to Perry first," she concluded, and Perry punched the air while Harry looked shocked. "So that my uncle can have the final word," she added and Perry deflated.

"Very well," Harry strode up from his seat. "I'll leave you to it."

Just as soon as the door latched shut behind her uncle, Perry swiveled round in his chair.

"Alright so you need to keep quiet about the extent of our investigation, our supply, and everything we learned about the cinema and distribution," he shot off in rapid fire. "They're aurors, right? They can handle things themselves. They don't even need us! We're not even getting paid. Well, I'm not, at least—" Roxanne respected how much he could say without stopping for breath. He seemed keen to make every counter-argument for her. "So let's stay out of their way, and then it doesn't hurt if we find out helpful things ourselves, but—" he still hadn't paused to inhale, yet gesticulated wildly. "We can't tell them anything until we know they won't interfere. And think about it—your uncle only takes the roads he does now because he has to uphold Ministry laws. This is how he would do it if it were up to him, and you _know_ that's true."

He let the strength of his final implication hang and gave Roxanne a fierce look. Before she could reply, or contradict him in anyway, he shot to standing and slipped from the room. If he'd had a microphone, he would have dropped it with gusto.

Roxanne's head was still cocked, eyebrow still raised, when Harry reentered.

"Well I suppose I admire his brevity," her uncle said with the shadow of a laugh as he retook his seat. "I need to talk to you about Blishwick."

"Bollocks," Roxanne sighed.

"Now I know what a difficult ask this is, and I know better than most that it isn't up to you, but you need to be extra careful to stay out of the papers," Harry said gently. "Blishwick isn't pressing charges. _Right now_. But he has made it very clear that he doesn't want his reputation to be compromised by rumours."

"His reputation _should_ be compromised," Roxanne muttered, crossing her arms.

"It's not that I disagree," Harry smiled gently. "But this is a classic example of a carrot and a stick. Well—it's the worst example of a carrot and a stick, really. The stick is facing criminal charges, while the carrot is… _Not_ facing criminal charges. So, not a huge amount of positive incentive."

"It's alright," Roxanne sighed. "I know it's your nature, and you're my uncle—but you don't need to try so hard to protect me from this. It is what it is."

In his special Harry-way, her uncle beamed. "Now, about Perry."

"Yes," Roxanne straightened her back.

"I'm glad you two have struck up a friendship. I think he'll benefit tremendously by having someone as grounded as you are around."

"But?" she asked.

"I worry about him."

"That's good of you," she deflected.

"Yes, you're very clever," Harry said with the shadow of a smirk, but soon grew somber again. "I have very real reasons for worrying about him. I hope, if you have any samples of the silver narcotic at Baker Street, that you will destroy them. All of them."

"I don't see any reason why I wouldn't do that," Roxanne inclined her head.

"Good point," Harry agreed. "You should know—and I don't like sharing private information about Perry with people, for reasons I'm sure you understand..."

"Yes, I think I understand your reasoning," Roxanne agreed. "There seem to be quite a few rumours about him."

"They aren't all rumours." His green eyes glowed with an ardent solemnity. "I know you wouldn't have read most of the gossip pieces about, well, everything he's been through. But you _need_ to know, Roxy..." A pause. "He is an addict."

* * *

 ** _Author's Note:_** _'Audrey Tang, former stripper,' is a reference to Gabriella Hunter's fantastically original story,_ This is Audrey Tang: the Bad Taste on HPFF.

The term 'drowning' to describe potions abuse was coined by Crestwood, and is just SO CLEVER on SO MANY LEVELS. Thank you to him for all the help beta-ing, as well as Mymischiefmanaged, who helped so much ramping up the humor throughout.

Also, the original A/N for this chapter has spontaneously disappeared, and there was probably a whole bunch of other stuff I'd meant to say too. Erm, whoops!


	5. Meet the Wotters

**Meet the Wotters  
**

* * *

 _You're certain of that?_ Yes I'm certain. _You know for a fact that he's an addict?_ I know enough. _Have you seen him use, with your own eyes? Have you seen a positive test?_ I've seen him hit rock bottom. _I'm not arguing with you, Harry, I just want to understand…_

Roxanne replayed the conversation over and over in her head as they waited for Finch-Fletchley to sign them out of the Auror Office. Perry just bounced absently on the balls of his feet. It wasn't that she didn't believe her uncle, only that he hadn't given her enough reason to believe him. Not after she'd seen in The _Prophet_ how easily a seed truth could blossom into a lie.

Slipping her wand out of her robes pocket, she trained it on Perry while keeping her gaze casual. His nervous energy might have been consistent with _Alacratus_ charm abuse. As a test, she sent a nonverbal _finite_ at him.

Nothing. No sudden crash. No overwhelming withdrawal symptoms. Perry just continued fidgeting as though nothing had happened.

While his behavior was definitely erratic, Roxanne had seen potions and spell addicts at St. Mungo's and knew the warning signs for Recreational Magic abuse. Perry didn't have the tell-tale stained gums and bad breath of a Drowner, nor did he betray a compulsion to obsess over his own wand like a Hex Head. Then again, his seemingly intimate knowledge of muggle narcotics put her on edge, and she was none too familiar with those warning signs.

Looking at it another way, Perry didn't necessarily have to _use_ a substance in order to know a great deal about it. He seemed to collect obscure knowledge on random topics seemingly for the sake of it. After all, he'd also been able to correctly identify a specific cafe based on the smell of coffee clinging to her hair. And Perry definitely wasn't the type to get cappuccinos at Leonardo's. He preferred only the cheapest, meanest kind of coffee.

"Cheers, Finch-Fletchley," Perry beamed, stepping into the hearth just as soon as the auror threw in a handful of Floo powder. "And by the way, you don't need to put on your wedding band on my account. I can see how it pinches from all the weight you've gained, and it doesn't matter to _me_ that you and the Missus have split."

He called out for Baker Street and swirled away before the auror could get in a punch. Roxanne offered Finch-Fletchley a strangled sort of sound from the back of her throat before following Perry through the flames.

Once home, she decided she might as well destroy her rucksack as well as the drugs. It might have been contaminated by the Silver and she didn't want to take any chances. Clearing everything else from the kitchen table she pulled out her wand in preparation for the vanishing charm.

"What are you _doing_?!" Perry cried, seizing her wand arm. "We need that!"

"Why? It's dangerous, and we should be rid of it."

"We need that for the _antidote_ ," he rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"But—you said—"

"Yes, I know, but there are other ways," he explained. "We can reverse engineer the material—but I'll need the lot of it."

"You can't reverse-concoct it," Roxanne huffed. "We haven't even got a proper potions lab and it's _illegal_!"

"Yes I know," he waved his hands, seeming frustrated that he had to explain something so simple. "And that would be the reason why I didn't tell your uncle."

"But they have a proper lab and potioneers!" her voice rose in volume. " _They could_ reverse concoct it!"

"Even if they got a special research exception, they don't have the means to identify the components once they're isolated; I do," Perry explained. "Also illegally."

"I don't feel comfortable with you handling the samples," Roxanne admitted, her voice low but firm. Perry groaned, stamping his feet like a child.

"Here," he said, pulling up his robes sleeves. "No puncture marks, no collapsed veins, no abscesses."

Roxanne leaned in the inspect his forearms even though they were visibly unblemished. She refused to simply take the gesture alone. "Theoretically, you might be injecting elsewhere," she pointed out.

"Do I _seem_ like I'm on heroin?" he demanded, frustrated.

He had a point. However odd his behavior, it certainly wasn't consistent with opiate abuse. She'd seen enough heroin addicts during their sojourn in the muggle underworld to recognize that much.

"Well I'll want to supervise, at least," she straightened her back and Perry gave a grudging nod of assent.

Late afternoon became early evening as the cauldron bubbled, its contents looking everything in the world like molten silver. Roxanne had insisted they take every safety measure possible, including bubblehead charms, and had spent over an hour turning their kitchen into a makeshift lab. Perry had made an unwilling audience to her impassioned rant about safety protocols.

"It distorts my vision," Perry whined of the bubblehead as, for the second time, his hand missed his wand by several centimeters.

"Well this narcotic would distort your _mind_ ," she shot back. "Which one is worse?"

Perry only grumbled and made a third grab for his wand. Holding it up to the churning surface of the brew, he extracted a long white tendril of fluid like a bird pulling a worm from the earth. Roxanne scooped up a phial and held it at the ready.

"What do you think that one is?" she asked, breath fogging up her bubble and her voice echoing overloud.

"Aspirin and water, from the look of it," he squinted at the sample. "Should react with the bloodmoss."

"How did you figure that out?" Roxanne asked as Perry ground the moss with a mortar and pestle.

"Trial and error," he shrugged, straining the juices into the phial. Sure enough, the two admixtures repelled one another like water against oil.

"But, why did you set out to study all this? Why figure out how to identify aspirin?"

Perry kept his eyes trained on his work and said simply, "no one had ever studied muggle compounds before. I was curious."

A familiar sentiment for Roxanne. She'd almost say that Perry reminded her of Blishwick, except the two of them couldn't have been more different. The Healer always measured his words, while the investigator blurted out whatever came to mind. Blishwick was fastidiously ordered, while Perry was a catastrophic mess. One had an elite career, while the other pestered the D.M.L.E. as a kind of personal obsession.

Perry began drawing another thread from the potion. "Here, I think this one is caffeine. We'll test it against the wormwood."

"Huh," Roxanne muttered as she added a few drops of the wormwood infusion. "That's odd, isn't it?"

"How do you mean?" Perry asked as he stirred the newest sample—sure enough, it hissed.

"I mean, wormwood has mostly the same properties as pixie milk, albeit milder, and without the euphoria," Roxanne said. "Why dilute the heroin with caffeine if the pixie milk is only going to counteract it anyway?"

"A lot of heroin is cut with caffeine," Perry shrugged. "Whoever created the mixture probably bought it after it had been diluted."

Roxanne couldn't help but grit her teeth. This mysterious supplier had been one of the most careless and selfish people she'd ever heard of. They'd obviously added heroin to the mix in order to make it addictive. They'd used black tar because it was cheaper, even though it was deadlier. They hadn't even cared what was in it, and now, people were dying. She exhaled hard, not realizing she was doing it.

"Yes?" came Perry's muffled voice.

"I'm just frustrated is all," she replied. At that moment, a great sooty owl soared through the open kitchen window—or tried to. It bounced right off the invisible barrier erected to contain the fumes and tumbled down out of sight.

"Shit!" Roxanne cried. It had been Teddy's owl. Seizing her wand from the table, she passed through the barrier like a soapy finger through a bubble and tore down the stairs after the bird. She found it, confused and put-out, in the back courtyard. The owl eyed her with disdain.

"Roxy, dear!" Mrs. Hudson called through her kitchen window. "I think you've forgotten to take your helmet off."

Roxanne saw the old woman wink at exactly the same moment she realized still had the bubblehead. Scooping up the black feathery mass she turned around back into the safety of her building to open the letter.

 _Roxy,_

Just confirming that you're on the list for tonight. Hope the paps don't keep you away—Li-Lu was able to fly back from Germany after all, so that's all the cousins.

Lots of Love,

Teddy

Ps, heard a rumour you were dating Scorpius Malfoy? You can bring him if you like.

"Shit," Roxanne whispered to herself on the landing. She'd completely forgotten that _Finnegan & Thomas Brewery_ were having their launch party that night. Teddy and Victoire's band would be performing and Roxanne had given a thousand ardent promises that she would be in attendance. 'The Strange' had begun playing gigs back when Roxanne had been doing her residency, and to date, she hadn't seen them live once. She'd heard their music on WPR a few times and it was good, if loud.

Roxanne pushed open the door to 221B and Perry's bubblehead popped out from the kitchen.

"Bad news?" he asked, frowning.

"No, actually," she sighed. Suddenly exhausted, Roxanne dropped into the second armchair. She could feel some scattered cigarette ends pressing into the backs of her thighs through her robes. "There's a gig tonight—launch party for some old family friends. The lot of us were supposed to go." She vanished the bubble from her head so she could massage the bridge of her nose. Perry shuffled into the sitting room and sat down daintily on his chair.

"What's the trouble?" he asked, arranging his features into what he must have thought looked like concern.

"Well I just found out that my cousin, Lily, is coming in after all—we thought she'd be stuck in Germany until the end of the play-offs, but I s'pose she got a few days leave."

"And is it," he kept his eyes down and picked at some lint on his robes. " _Uncommon_ for your family to be assembled all in the same place?"

"Quite," Roxanne chuckled. "The lot of us used to get together every Christmas, and over summers and all. But there's just so many of us, and now we're older we've all got something on."

"Then you should go," he nodded emphatically.

"Don't be absurd," she wheezed. "I can't just leave you with all this. And even if I could do, then I should be staking out the cinema not going to a bloody nightclub."

Perry waved a dismissive hand. "The supplier won't be parceling any more to the dealers just yet. And I can manage the antidote. Go to the party." His earnest expression appeared weirdly distorted by the bubblehead.

It took Roxanne ages to get ready for the gig. She hadn't been out to a club in... a long time. Robes seemed, she thought, too old fashioned, and so she settled instead on a vintage studded dress she'd purchased some years back but never worn. She felt relieved that it had survived the other day's purge.

After trying on almost every pair of shoes she owned, Roxanne settled on her spikiest pair of heels. _If I don't wear them tonight of all nights_ , she thought, _then why even bother keeping them?_

Applying makeup proved an additional struggle. It had just been so long since she'd worn any that she'd nearly forgotten what she used to do. After wiping off several smeary attempts she managed to recreate the 'smokey eye' effect of her younger days before setting it off with blue lippy.

Perry was still labouring away in their makeshift lab. The protective enchantment kept the silvery vapors from crossing the threshold into the sitting room and Roxanne could see them curling at the invisible corners.

"Alright then, I'm off," she said, clutching her smallest leather purse in both hands. "Are you sure you're alright without me?"

" _Hn_ ," he grunted in reply. She took that as a yes.

"Ok," she said, but didn't waver from her spot. "Well... see you later."

" _Hn_ ," he grunted again, agitating another sample in a phial.

There followed a tense moment; Roxanne didn't move and Perry didn't look up. _I shouldn't start acting like his mother,_ she reminded herself. _It's not my place to worry over him, or pick up after him, or fix him bloody tea and toast for breakfast._

After several long seconds Perry glanced up and jumped. "Oh, blimey, you're still there. I thought you'd gone."

"Yeah, I'm going now," Roxanne scowled before stalking out the door.

She disapparated from the back courtyard at Baker Street onto Diurn. Opening her eyes, she felt overwhelmed by the sudden familiarity of the alley. At the same time, her old street seemed to have swollen in the time since she had left. _Could it_ , she wondered, _really have been this grand and pretentious before?_ It certainly hadn't been for the status of it that Roxanne had gotten a flat on Diurn, her old building and its location had just sported more amenities and conveniences than anything else available. But looking at the place now, she felt overwhelmed by the superfluousness of it all. Making her way down the road she couldn't help but feel like a stranger. Like her access to the public area had somehow been revoked.

Less than three days in cramped, dingy quarters, and her perspective had already been affected. And Roxanne wasn't sure how she felt about that.

The Diogenes Club sat, resplendent and imposing, at the dead-end of the alley like some kind of architectural finale. It's exterior was a jumble of corinthian columns and balconies topped with a running frieze. Once upon a time, the Diogenes had been an elite Member's Only club where only the highest echelons of society had rubbed shoulders and made deals. Roxanne had heard it said that no important political or financial decision ever got brokered outside of the Diogenes. Perry's grandfather had probably spent many evenings there in those days. But then the war came.

The stuffy old club had stayed closed for years after the reconstruction. It wasn't until the late 2000s that the Patil-Browns purchased it, re-imagining the space as a live music venue. The neighbors on Diurn stomped and moaned about the conversion, but the club attracted a steady trickle of party-goers weekend after weekend anyway. The conservative neighbors eventually abandoned their protestations, and reluctantly came to appreciate the injection of a younger—yet still Posh—demographic making its way into Diurn.

And the Diogenes Club was certainly still posh. The doorwizard checked that Roxanne was on the list before stamping the inside of her wrist with his wand and allowing her to step inside. A sparkling, enchanted waterfall surged silently down the furthest wall behind the stage, illuminated from within by shifting colored lights. Real clouds floated just under the muraled ceiling with its stylized images of exotic birds and fairies. Any surface that warranted upholstering was covered in lush, brocaded velvets. It was all a bit over the top.

Roxanne considered getting a gillywater martini before remembering that cocktails at the Diogenes ran for upwards of three galleons. She'd be better off sticking to the complimentary beer. The club was still nearly empty, save for a few brewery employees milling about. The official start-time on the invitation had read nine o' clock, but Roxanne privately suspected that it wasn't considered 'cool' to show up just on time.

"Rox!" Al called, leaning out from the mezzanine. "We're up here!"

Roxanne grinned and waved before stepping onto a gently rotating spiral stairwell up to the VIP section. Albus undid the velvet (and brocaded) rope so that she could pass and the two shared a high five, as was their typical fashion.

"Alright Roxy," James grinned, disentangling one arm from around his date's shoulder to give her a hug. "Glad you could come. Get made by any paps?"

"Nah," she said, sinking into an overstuffed velvet cushion beside Rose, who nuzzled her head against Roxanne's shoulder. "And it's no trouble if I did do—not really exciting news, is it? My coming to this?" Roxanne added.

"Good point," Rose smiled before taking a delicate sip of _Thomas & Finnegan Cream Stout_—her head seemed to have made it's permanent home on Roxanne's shoulder.

"So, which of you got to see my debut in The _Prophet_ ," she asked, trying to sound casual. She'd decided she would rather get the nasty topic over with quickly.

Three sets of embarrassed eyes began examining three sets of fingernails. James was the first to break the silence. " _Evening Prophet_ ," he reminded her. "You haven't been truly victimized until you've been in the morning edition, or worse, _Witch Weekly_."

Albus shuddered at the mention of the magazine.

"What's all that, then?" Roxanne asked as she reached for a complimentary bottle of lager from the ice bath.

"Al's been named 'most eligible bachelor,'" Rose giggled. "Aunt Ginny said he's nearly drowned in the fan-mail."

"Not. Funny," Albus said, his earnest green eyes suddenly adopting the dead look of someone who'd seen too much. "People actually send _howlers_ proposing marriage. _Howlers._ I can't always open them all in time and more than a few have exploded. I've been been putting out fires in my flat for the last week."

"You should just move," James suggested. "Get something unplottable."

"Yeah, I should do," Albus shrugged, as if just picking up and leaving would be an easy solution. "What do you reckon, Roxy?" he asked. "You need a new place, yeah? We could be flatmates!"

"I've already found something, actually," Roxanne replied, disguising the awkwardness on her face behind a sip of lager.

"You haven't really moved in with Scorpius Malfoy?" Rose asked, head finally snapping up from Roxanne's shoulder.

"He goes by Perry now," was all Roxanne said, and the look of strangled shock on Al's face was almost amusing. "But it's not as if I moved in because we're seeing each other! We only met because he put out the advert and I needed a new flat."

"Roxy—he was in my year," Albus said, aghast. "He got expelled before sitting his O.W.L.s even—he's genuinely _mad_."

"Yes, I've noticed," she agreed.

As more guests began arriving Roxanne left the safety of the mezzanine in order to mingle amongst her many family members and friends thereof. It was awkward work navigating the questions away from herself and avoiding explaining what exactly she was doing with her life. She spent longer than was expressly normal talking with the Scamanders, who were far more interested in plants and creatures of dubious existence than in Roxanne's future.

The truth was, outside the scandal and the St. Mungo's and the investigation with Perry—both confidential—she just didn't have anything on. Only a few months before Roxanne had had all sorts of projects and accomplishments she'd been proud to discuss. She'd had friends, and a monthly pub quiz team, and a new paper on Cruciatus Damage set for publication, but they had all been through work and vanished as soon as her career ended. Without Healing, Roxanne's life had become vacuous.

"Roxy!" she heard a welcome voice call out. Molly wended through the crowd toward her cousin, a wide grin lighting up her angular face.

Molly had been born within a week of Roxanne, and Roxanne's father had been named godfather to both Molly and Lucy. Roxanne and Molly had been near inseparable as children.

"Oh it's good to see you!" Roxanne squealed, hugging her favorite cousin tight. "How's Romania been?"

Molly managed to maintain a remarkably cavalier tone while discussing her dragon taming work. _Six Hungarian Horntails, all hatched at once. Took five of us to keep the mother from eating the runt._ Her left index and middle finger glinted as she tucked a few strands of inky black hair behind her ear. Golden prosthetics had replaced the digits she'd lost five years previous while catching an escaped Norwegian Ridgeback.

Roxanne had always vaguely planned on visiting her cousin out in the field. Getting the chance to see her in the thick of it, dripping with mud, her wand lashing through the air as she brought some fire-breathing behemoth to its knees. She'd probably follow it up with a quippy one-liner then offer to make tea as though it had been nothing. Roxanne supposed the one light spot in her foggy future plans was the free time afforded to actually follow through on everything she had long put off.

"I heard about the _Prophet_ piece," Molly inevitably said with a frown. "Mum told me she wrote—hope she didn't come on too strong."

Roxanne shrugged it off. "Oh she went on about how she was 'here for me' and all that. Nothing too awful."

In truth, Audrey's gentle kindness the previous evening had been devastating. The implication that she might have believed Skeeter's slander had come like a punch to the gut. And because it was Audrey, Roxanne knew that she had meant it. Molly prepared to apologize for her mother just as the club lights dimmed. Both women turned their attention to the band mounting the stage.

"Come on!" James seized Roxanne's hand as he and the flock of cousins pushed their way through the crowd to the front. Teddy made a few remarks into his microphone thanking Thomas & Finnegan for having them and then set upon his guitar. The audience exploded into cheering applause just as soon as the first few notes rang out. Roxanne didn't know the tune, but gathered that it must have been one of their hits by the crowd's enthusiasm. She had to admit that the persistent strumming of the opening chord drew from her a visceral excitement.

V began stamping out a simple, booming rhythm on the bass drum. It gave the sensation of something building, and the audience's glee came to a fever pitch. It was nearly impossible for Roxanne to take her eyes off her cousin, whose white-blonde buzzcut seemed to glitter beneath the stage lights.

" _The right thing to do_ ," V sang from behind the drumset. " _An answer I thought I knew._ " Their voice was smoky and tough, yet there was an undeniable sweetness to the melody. It might have been the catchiest thing Roxanne had ever heard. " _It's like a gift from me to you: the wrong thing to do. And that's what we'll do_."

The verse came to an end, leaving room for the chorus to explode. Teddy's vocals came in howling, violent contrast to V's as his hair morphed from cool blue to fiery red. Roxanne couldn't help but feel caught up in the passion of it and all around her the audience began jumping and shaking their heads. To her right, Nikki's platinum tresses whipped while Rose's ginger curls bounced. The two must have known the song, as they shouted the lyrics at one another: " _And if the fruit-flies starve, then we were doing our best! We'll sort out the rest!_ " Roxanne didn't have a clue what it was supposed to mean.

Teddy and his bassist, Felix, crashed around the stage for the next hour while V anchored them like a contained explosion of limbs from the back. Roxanne couldn't help but be impressed by the showmanship. Whether Teddy's changes in appearance were intentional or not, they were a joy to behold. As he whipped his head his hair undulated in length and color. Long dirty blond into spiky black and then up into a fuschia mohawk. The Strange played off the audience, feeding their exhilaration when they danced and bringing down the tempo when they needed a break.

James and Rose didn't stop jumping and dancing once throughout the set. Roxanne was surprised, when Teddy announced their last song, that she'd managed to keep up with them. She couldn't remember a time when she'd danced like that.

"Alright Roxy!" James shook her shoulder joyfully as the last note of the last song died out. "I knew you still had some fun in you!"

Roxanne beamed back, flushed and out of breath.

"An announcement to the significant portion of the audience who are my cousins," Teddy smiled, steadying himself on the mic stand. "As we're all here—and everyone's finally of age—Dean and Seamus have kindly set aside a few cases of their Cream Stout and the Patil-Brown's promised to keep the club open an extra hour so we can have a proper reunion!"

With an enduring grin plastered on her face Roxanne made a twisting path towards the bar for a glass of water. Lily had been annexed by Uncle Ron, who'd worked himself up into a state of near-reverie. That his niece had carried the Chudley Cannons to the top of the league and then gotten chosen to play for England in the World Cup was, it seemed, the realization of some very old, and very ardent, life dream.

"I'm prouder than the day I got my own— _hic_ —chocolate frog card," he slurred, dropping his hands on either of Lily's shoulders. "I mean that."

Clearly, Ron had helped himself to quite a bit of the complimentary Cream Stout.

Deep dimples emerged in Lily's cheeks as she saw Roxanne approach and the two shared a long hug. Roxanne noted her windblown hair, and how the smell of rain and cold still hung on her traveling cloak.

"Did you just get in?" Roxanne asked, breaking from the embrace.

"Yeah, I'm dead on my feet," Lily admitted. "But how often are we all together like this?"

Lily excused herself from her uncle's admiration and the two set a course for the VIP lounge. Once up the stairs, Roxanne looked around at her family and felt warm gratitude erupt in her chest. If someone didn't know any better, they might not realize that the rowdy bunch were even related at all. But despite being so different from one another the so-called 'Wotters' had certain traits in common. Chiefly, Roxanne realized, they all got loud when they drank. She'd never noticed the trend before; they hadn't all been in the same place since long before the age gaps had snapped shut.

"Well I read Skeeter's article," Freddie announced without a hint of shame once their party was underway. "And I'm well pissed at what they said about me. Like, 'well he's boring, but at least he's gay.' Come _on_. And how comes I'm the gay one out of the lot of us?"

Lily's clever eyes flashed as her cheeks dimpled. "The Cannons becoming number one in the country beats 'Lesbian' any day. They only have time for one epithet per person."

"Yeah alright," Freddie agreed. "James? How did you get out of Queer duty? They still call you a 'womanizer.'"

"Never did the Coming Out thing proper, did I?" James replied, crossing his arms jauntily. "I mean, you lot know, yeah. But I didn't go shouting it to the paps like Freddie here."

Indeed, whenever it came out that James had spent the night with a bloke—and about one third of his nights went that way—the press acted like he'd made some sort of hilarious mistake. As if he was such an inveterate shagger that he just got confused sometimes and didn't notice.

"You don't need to be queer to have your sexuality dragged into things," Rose pointed out.

"Yeah, well maybe stop going on about your sex life to reporters," Hugo snarled.

"I do _not_ ," Rose shot back. "They ask these odd, leading questions, like it's something I ought to be ashamed of, and then it just gets me so angry that I end up yelling at them about how women enjoy sex too."

"Gross," Hugo replied, reaching for another bottle. Rose pulled an infuriated face and smacked him with a velvet pillow.

"They know they can get a rise out of you by saying that kind of thing," Albus shook his head. "It's a trick to get you to make a statement. They guessed that your mum would have raised you to be 'sex positive' and all that, and they assume you'll be easy to provoke. You should just ignore them."

Rose had started interning on _Watchdog_ , Lee Jordan's news hour, straight out of Hogwarts. A few years later, she began hosting her own talk show and had become something of an advocate for progressive causes. Rose had less patience than anyone for the gossip media, as she herself exemplified responsible journalism at its best.

"But," Rose cast about, frustrated, for what she meant to say. "That's the thing, isn't it? I mean, I just don't think anything I've said is wrong. Why should I keep my mouth shut?"

"Because I don't like my sister going on about how masturbation is perfectly healthy," Hugo answered, a little too sharply for Roxanne's taste.

"But it is!" Rose shook her fists and Roxanne choked on her drink.

Once upon a time, the years separating her cousins had seemed like such a untraversable stretch of time. Now they were all sat about, drinking too much and discussing sexuality. That little Lucy was already twenty, with her own apartment, or that Louis had just returned from a photo-journalism fellowship in the Levant—it all seemed impossible to Roxanne. Certainly they'd all been starting at Hogwarts just the other day. She suddenly felt very old.

Roxanne sought out Teddy and V—the only people older than she was—and took a seat beside their bassist. He flashed her a flirtatious sort of smirk and she responded in kind before she could think better of it.

 _Well why shouldn't I?_ she thought, but realized she was getting ahead of herself.

The lot of them spent a while discussing music, a topic wherein Roxanne was mildly out of her element. Her own stereo typically stayed tuned to whatever pop station played Circe regularly.

"I'll agree that the industry's gotten more progressive," Felix said—they'd been debating wizarding rock. "But we're still years behind the muggles. I mean, take the Weird Sisters: in the nineties they were only just picking up on trends from the sixties and seventies."

"Very early Bolan," Teddy nodded.

"And forty years later, we're only just starting to hear grunge on WWN," Felix threw up his arms. "That stuff is _dad rock_ to me!"

Roxanne's eyes wandered out the paned window to the private balcony where James and Hugo appeared to be sharing a spliff. She lost track of the musical debate happening in her booth. Hugo was pulling up his sleeve, bringing his thumb against his first two fingers. It almost looked like he was miming muggle intravenous injection.

"Excuse me," Roxanne said absently. She climbed over Felix and nearly twisted her ankle on her tall heels in her haste toward the balcony. Pushing open the door she felt awash in the warm night air, perfumed by the jasmine creeping around the balustrades. The party revelling inside retreated to mere muffles as the closed the door behind her.

"That's madness," she heard James say in a dismissive voice.

"I've seen it!" Hugo replied enthusiastically. "They stick the sharp bit straight into their skin!"

Roxanne got the distinct impression, from his tone, that he wanted to impress his cool older cousin.

"What's it you're talking about?" she asked in a bright voice.

"Nothing," Hugo sulked at the same time James said, "some new drug Hugo claims he's seen."

"It's silver, right?" she asked.

"Yeah," Hugo replied warily. He clearly hadn't wanted to discuss it with Roxanne. "How do you know?"

"Saw people sick off it at St. Mungo's," she lied with a shrug. "Been killing nearly everyone who's tried it," she embellished, hoping to steer Hugo away from any experimentation he might consider. "Even if they don't overdose it plays havoc on the circulatory system. Terrible bruising on the injection sites—really ugly stuff."

That much, at least, was true. She'd seen the nasty evidence of black tar injection on the muggles in London. Roxanne tried to push the memories aside.

"Yeah, well my mate's not an idiot. He's a dealer," Hugo added more to James. "The needle thing left a mark and all, but he _episkey_ 'd it away."

There followed a long, terrible silence. How could she have been so stupid?

Roxanne left the Diogenes Club without even bothering to say goodbye.

"Perry!" she shouted as she burst through the door at Baker Street. "Perry where are you?"

No reply.

 _It's late_ , she reminded herself. _He's probably just sleeping._

Their makeshift potions lab had been carefully tidied up and Perry's results waited expectantly on the kitchen table—fourteen phials in total. He'd successfully isolated every ingredient and chemical component in the Silver. Reading off the labels Roxanne saw everything from acetylated morphine derivatives to pure water to lactose. Only one thing appeared to be conspicuously absent: actual heroin. _Diamorphine._ The active ingredient.

"Perry!" she called out again. She was once more met with silence. " _Shit_!"

She knew she might be overstepping, but he'd been fine barging into _her_ room in the middle of the night. After a deep breath she tugged open his door.

"Perry?" she repeated, before flicking on the light. His bedroom was in worse disarray than she'd imagined. A thick carpet of dirty robes and assorted rubbish covered the floor and she had to hop between clear spots in order to get to his bed. He slept on a bare mattress.

She called his name a few more times and shook him, but he failed to respond. He was alive, she could tell, and breathing, however slowly. She closed her eyes tight, counted to three, then pulled up his robe sleeves. Just as before his pale skin appeared smooth.

" _Contrarium incantatum,_ " she whispered, waving her wand over his inner arms and the crooks of his elbows.

Seven angry, discolored bruises emerged like flowers opening to the sun. At the center of each, a puncture wound.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _"The Patil-Browns" are a reference to_ A Lightness _and_ Background Noise _by Teh Tarik._ Thomas & Finnegan Brewery _is borrowed from Peppersweet's HP Edit blog collaboration with Justonemorefic. "Watchdog with Lee Jordan" is a reference to_ Victoire _by Mymischiefmanaged (my beautiful, amazing beta)._

While the lyrics to the Strange's song are original, I imagined it all sounding and having the same melody/structure as "Two Cups of Tea" by the Star Fucking Hipsters. (And in case it was unclear, V is genderqueer and takes the pronoun 'they').


	6. Such Savage Means

**Such Savage Means  
**

 _Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of substance abuse._

* * *

" _Accio 'Norcon'!_ " Nothing. " _Accio 'Noxolone!'_ " Nothing. Roxanne wracked her brain for the word Perry had used earlier that day, but couldn't remember it. " _Accio Heroin Antidote!_ " she tried.

To her surprise, Perry's bedside table began rattling, as if some caged creature wanted to be freed. Pulling open the drawer, a cellophane-wrapped box leapt into her arms.

 _Narcan (Naloxone)_ , the label read. Roxanne rushed to unsheathe the life-saving muggle drug, reading through the instructions several times to be sure she understood them. _Into the thigh muscle... through clothing if necessary._

With a deep breath and the steady hand of a trained Healer, Roxanne pumped two milligrams of Naloxone Hydrochloride into Perry's bloodstream. The instructions had indicated that it might take as much as a minute for the medicine to take effect.

 _One, two, three…_ She waited while the agonizing seconds ticked by, not daring to breathe. _Thirty three, thirty four…_

A sharp, ragged breath, like a person saved from drowning; bloodshot eyes snapped open.

"What the _fuck_?" Perry cried, leaping to his knees as his stained blankets slipped to the floor.

Roxanne tried restrain him, to check his vital signs, but he pushed her away.

"Did you really just dose me with Narcan?" he demanded. "I was _sleeping!_ "

"You were on heroin!" Roxanne countered.

"Yeah, but was I overdosing?" Agitated, Perry ran his hands through his stringy hair and reached for a cigarette. He tried to light it, failed, and sprang from the mattress. He seemed suddenly possessed of boundless nervous energy. "I'll answer for you: _no._ I'd isolated the pure diamorphine, and been careful to give myself a safe dose."

"A safe dose?" Roxanne spluttered. "We're talking about _heroin_. You were unresponsive!"

"Yes, that's what heroin does!" he groaned. "It's kind of the point." He'd begun jumping on his bed like a small, misbehaving child. "It hardly warrants two milligrams of _Wake the Hell Up_."

"How long have you been on the heroin?" she asked, voice clipped. Perry finally succeeded in lighting his cigarette. The mattress springs creaked as he resumed his bouncing.

"Oh, just tonight." He shook his head. "I took it to get to sleep."

"You have half a dozen injection marks, and that's just your arms," she shot back. Her fury was matched only by her enduring concern for a patient's well being.

"That's from the cocaine," Perry rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"?!" Roxanne replied.

"A seven percent solution. I use it when I'm working a case—keeps me sharp. The heroin was to help me come down."

"I can't believe this," Roxanne shook her head. "This is ridiculous. I can't stay here. Consider our arrangement dissolved, Perry. I won't be co-depending your behavior."

He plopped down cross-legged onto his mattress, squinting his eyes as he pulled on his fag. "So the way you see it, you just saved me from an overdose, and I'm currently in the clutches of a crippling addiction. So, what, you leave? Leave me here all alone to drown my sorrows in more than a kilo of purified heroin?"

In the battle between concern and rage, concern had just taken a sucker punch to the chin. For the second time that month, Roxanne prickled with righteous outrage. Her knuckles blanched as her fingers curled into fists. "Don't you dare try to manipulate me," she said in a dangerous whisper.

She wouldn't leave him alone, that much was true, but she wouldn't be sticking around to babysit either. Seizing him by the ear, Roxanne forced a protesting Perry off his bed. He yelped and cursed while she frog-marched him out of the bedroom to the hall. She would take him to the only person he had, and the only person that had any reason to put up with him.

She felt guilty rapping on old Mrs. Hudson's door well after midnight, but reminded herself of the massive rent Perry afforded her every month. Surely, such a princely expense must come with some advantages—some insurance for this precise situation.

"Oh dear, what's happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she opened the door, a tartan dressing-gown pulled tight over her breast. "Is it drugs again?" she whispered, nose scrunching like she already knew the answer.

Roxanne gave Perry a shove through the door and nodded solemnly. "This is called Narcan," Roxanne explained. "I've given him a dose already, but it'll only last maybe an hour more. Here." She tossed over the box. "If he shows any troubling signs, give him two-milligrams. Up to one dose an hour, no more than ten milligrams total. The instructions are inside."

"Well, there are new episodes of _Doctor Who_ up, Perry dear," Mrs. Hudson said kindly. "What do you say we make a night of it?" Perry cast Roxanne a childish glare while Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder and pulled him into her sitting room.

With that, Roxanne turned on her heel back up to 221B and proceeded to dispose of every sample Perry had isolated. Even the lactose and distilled water didn't survive her purge. It took longer to find his stash of purified diamorphine, but soon, it too got vanished along with everything else.

 _And it's not like we need the samples now we've got the notes_ , Roxanne thought, before reminding herself that she wouldn't be continuing to investigate. She would compose an owl to Harry outlining everything she knew in the morning and then leave the trained professionals to finish the job.

Roxanne packed an overnight-bag before apparating to Diagon Alley. James would probably still be up, even if interrupting him at this late hour proved ultimately embarrassing. True to form, he answered the door wearing only a towel round his waist.

"What's up, Rox?" he asked, reeking of sweat and alcohol and cannabis.

"I need to spend the night," Roxanne said. "You can cast _muffliato_ around your bedroom."

"Sure, yeah, of course," James stepped aside to let her pass. "We'll, uh, leave you to the sofa, then."

Roxanne curled her lip to see a naked figure reclining on the couch she'd hope to make her bed.

"Hi, Lorcan," she said as he hastened to cover himself with a throw-pillow.

"I worried something like this would happen," Harry sighed. False sunlight streamed in through the briefing room windows. A vain attempt to trick guests into forgetting they were several stories underground. "Is it the cocaine again?"

"With a side-order of heroin," Roxanne gave a solemn nod. "So this has happened before?"

"He gets too invested in cases," Harry explained. "At least he isn't taking this one personally. A few months ago..."

Harry leaned back in his chair and gazed into the half distance.

"Yes?" she encouraged him to continue. "Listen, I think we're past the point of you protecting his reputation. I'm going back later to collect my things and I need to know what to expect."

"He, well, he lost it," Harry admitted. "Wacked out on muggle drugs, not sleeping. He got it in his head that a respected member of the community was part of some... wild conspiracy. A dark wizard and all that. In the end, he broke into the wizard's house. Completely lost sight of reality. I took him to a special kind of muggle hospital to treat his substance abuse."

Roxanne let the story sink in, trying not to let her imagination fill in the details of what Harry had said.

"I'm sorry I kept information from you," she finally said, stinging with regret. "I've compiled all of our notes in that file. Perry might have figured out more after I left for the gig, but it's not as if we can trust his judgement."

"I'm sure you're right," Harry sighed again, eyeing her tidy little notes. "We'll station aurors at all the cinemas in the Strand area. Thank you for this."

"There's something else," she gulped, trying to determine the most delicate phrasing. "I think you should talk to Hugo. He knows people that've used the Silver. He might be able to tell you something; help find the supplier."

Harry shook his head wearily. "That boy..." was all he said.

Roxanne gathered her things and stood up to leave.

"One more thing," Harry said. "Just a heads up—you were in the _Prophet_ again this morning.

 _FOXY ROXY, BACK ON THE BOTTLE_ , the headline announced. Had she been 'on the bottle' before?

 _Continuing a downward spiral into drink and drugs_ , blah blah blah, _Roxanne fled the party, leaving concerned family members shocked by her outrageous behavior. While readers might have hoped her Tuesday excursion to Diagon Alley had been rock-bottom, apparently there are no limits to how low her star might fall…_

So she'd graduated to the morning _Prophet_ , but the gossip piece hadn't made the front page. That must, she determined, amount to a net neutral. At least Healer Blishwick hadn't been dragged into the story. She'd avoided criminal charges another day.

She fretted, though, over the damning photo accompanying the piece: Roxanne climbing over Felix's lap, flashing her knickers, and then stumbling over her stilettos out of the booth. One could easily mistake her anxious haste for drunkenness—and in all fairness, Roxanne hadn't been particularly sober. She couldn't help but wonder how Skeeter had even managed to obtain the image. Roxanne hadn't seen her at the event and they'd all been in a private VIP section at the time.

Roxanne apparated into the Baker Street courtyard, a cappuccino from Leonardo's clutched in one hand. _Fuck it_ , she'd thought, handing over a galleon and a few knuts for the overpriced coffee. _Just… fuck it._

While she'd never properly considered James' flat to be tidy, Perry's little hovel appeared all the more wretched after spending the morning away. Debris leaked out from his bedroom into the hall and the sitting room looked like the entire archive of _The British Journal of Healing Arts_ had exploded in it. She felt a jolt to see her own name emblazoned on the cover of the most recent edition among the scattered magazines. She recognized the headline from the joint paper she and Blishwick had submitted only a few months before. _Treatment Efficacy in Profound Cruciatus Damage: A Longitudinal Study._ She hadn't even been notified that it had passed peer review.

"Good, you're back," Perry noted from his armchair.

"I'm just here to collect my things. You can keep the rent for this month," she replied, stalking into her bedroom. Looking around, she regretted having made herself so at home.

How was it that she could have lived out of boxes during her first several months living on Diurn, yet had managed to settle all of her many possessions in at Baker Street in such short a time? Her expansive wardrobe was all hung in the closet or folded in the chest of drawers. Her pots and pans, silverware, and china had already gotten mixed up among Perry's mismatched dishes. With a heavy sigh, she resigned herself to sorting and re-packing her many things.

"Question," Perry startled her, emerging at her door. "I keep coming back to it: why did your uncle call us into the Ministry?"

"Let it go," Roxanne said, reopening a few cardboard boxes she'd flattened just the day before. "I've surrendered all our findings to the Auror Office."

Perry lit a cigarette and Roxanne nearly told him off for smoking in her room—before remembering that it wasn't her room anymore.

"You have to admit, nothing about this case makes sense," he said.

"I'm not on the case anymore, Perry, and neither are you," she reminded him, transferring folded clothes from her drawers into her boxes.

"Adding pixie milk to heroin probably makes for a better high," he went on, ignoring the interruption. "But why risk blowing the Statute of Secrecy just to make a few quid? Unless the goal was to undo the Statute..."

Roxanne spared him a sharp glare. "I'm not playing along." Unable to help herself, she added, "besides, if the end-game was really a dark plot to undo the Statute, then why distribute it in the wizarding world and draw attention from the D.M.L.E.? That's just begging to get caught."

"Which brings us back to the first question: why did your uncle call us in to the Ministry? I come to him, not the other way around."

"He didn't," Roxanne shot back. "He asked me in to consult because I'm a Healer. He said you could tag along."

"Do you usually consult with the Ministry?" Perry asked, and the question bore a rhetorical edge.

"No, but I was already involved, wasn't I?"

"So? It takes, what, fifteen minutes to brief an expert?" he went on. "Why you?"

"Because he didn't want to bring in Blishwick!" Roxanne huffed, temper rising.

A puck-like smirk emerged on Perry's lips. "If you really are leaving me forever, then at least tell me what happened at St. Mungo's. Because no matter what you say, Weasley, it sounds an awful lot like you two had an affair."

"I punched Blishwick in the face, alright!" she shouted. "Broke his nose..."

Roxanne had never before been on the receiving end of a slow-clap. She'd hoped the admission might shut him up, but instead, an impressed Perry followed her around the flat like an anxious puppy while she tried to gather her far-scattered possessions.

 _So that's why you had the disciplinary hearing?_ Yes. _But why did you punch him?_ It was a mistake. _But why?_ We had a disagreement. _So you punched him?_ Yes; we've established that. _What did he do?_ He made a treatment decision, and I thought it was a mistake. _Is that normal among Healers? Punching people because they make a bad call?_ Of course not! He was going to proceed with the treatment, and I needed to stop him. _So that's why the charges were in conflict! 'Insubordination' was you punching him out, 'malpractice' was the dangerous treatment._ Yes, you're quite the investigator. _But if Blishwick's such a star Healer, how come you were the one to realize that the treatment might hurt people?_ He knew, he just didn't care. _Why?_ Because he was more concerned with discovery than patient care. _Why?_ Oh I don't know! _But—_

Roxanne slammed the kitchen cabinet with a clatter. She wanted so much to be angry with Perry, but instead just found herself annoyed. _Why, why, why_ , he sounded like a three year old.

"So why would Harry call in Blishwick for a consult?" he pestered further.

"I suppose because he's an expert on pixie milk," Roxanne said, exasperated. "And researching magical-muggle hybrids is sort of his pet interest."

"Wait, what?!" Perry cried. "How have you not mentioned this before?!"

 _Suspect._ Such a heavy, loaded word. It rang with promise, with almost giddy anticipation.

Having grown up under the banner of 'Weasley,' Roxanne had been predisposed to Healing work that might benefit victims of the Second Wizarding World. She'd seen it almost as an inherited duty, like she'd been bred to carry on her family's torch of good work.

Even thirty years on, wounds from the great conflict lingered. Their most obvious example was the nearly one hundred individuals who'd been permanently damaged by the Cruciatus Curse. In the early days of the new millennium, St. Mungo's had had to radically expand the Spell Damage wing in order to accommodate the many residential patients. The vast majority had been tortured into insanity by the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange. In most cases, there hadn't been any reason for it. No information to be gained. Just senseless, meaningless cruelty, devoid of both purpose and function. She'd merely enjoyed it.

 _Bellatrix Lestrange._ The Healers at St. Mungo's never said the name. And while they never went so far as to dub her 'She Who Must Not Be Named,' they only ever referred to Her with pronouns. You could almost hear the capitalization in the intonation.

And Roxanne's own grandmother had been the one to vanquish Her. It seemed logical, then, that Molly Weasley's granddaughter should be the one to finish the job. To find a cure for Her many victims.

Pixie milk had long been the traditional treatment. It caused euphoria and sedation in healthy people, and successfully managed the worst symptoms of Cruciatus damage in those who suffered most terribly. One ounce administered four times a day kept patients docile, lowered the risk of suicide, and prevented violent outbursts. But pixie milk wasn't a cure.

"The muggles have had a lot of success with something called 'pharmaceuticals,'" Rudyard Blishwick had said earlier that Spring. Roxanne could remember looking at the churning, steel-grey sky out his window. The sound of heavy rain rattling the glass. "They've developed a number of synthetic compounds. If we found the right regimen—if we could enhance the substances—the patients might have a shot at living independently. Having lives."

An exciting idea, but a fraught one. "How long do you think it would take to get Ministry clearance for a study?" Roxanne had asked. "How many different compounds are we talking about?"

The stringent laws against tampering with muggle chemistry meant they'd need a compelling proposal. Even if they worked at it full time, it could take months to get it through the various subcommittees. With both of them already working overtime, the project would realistically take upwards of a year. Then again, it helped that Roxanne's aunt had been the legislation's original architect. That her uncle ran the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts and Technology office. She could probably manage a recommendation from Hermione Granger and Percy Weasley; expedite the process...

"The Ministry have passed a moratorium on any proposals for Muggle Chemical Research," Blishwick had replied. "Opposition's coming from all sides. The conservatives don't want to compromise the purity of wizarding academia. The progressives worry that any findings might be exploited by anti-muggle extremists. The fools..."

"I suppose that's that then," Roxanne had sighed. "There are still some promising avenues in traditional Herbology—Professor Longbottom might have identified a new species of fungi that—"

"There's a moratorium on any project reverse concocting, amplifying, or studying muggle pharmaceuticals in a laboratory," Blishwick had interrupted. "We could still test the hypothesis. We could treat the patients—administer various admixtures and see what happens. I prefer to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission."

"But we can't take them off the pixie milk!" Roxanne had protested. "It's all that keeps them stable! And we don't even know how these muggle compounds might contra-indicate—treatment could kill them!"

Roxanne shook herself from the memory and bit her lip. The squalid sitting room at Baker Street had become illuminated by the golden afternoon light while she'd explained the situation to Perry.

"So what happened?" he urged. "What did you do?"

"I agreed to start three patients on very low doses of three different compounds," she admitted. "And monitor their progress. I agreed to it, so long as we stopped if anything went sideways."

"And?"

"We lost a patient," she admitted. "But Blishwick wasn't sure it had been the treatment. The woman was old—one of the first residential Cruciatus victims. A former auror. She'd been injured back in the first war. Blishwick was sure that it had been something else; insisted she'd actually been showing progress before she died. He wanted to try the same drug on another patient—a younger patient."

"And that's when the face-punching happened?" Perry clarified.

"Indeed," Roxanne said.

Perry swooped up from his armchair and resumed pacing. "So Blishwick is trying to cause a fuss by getting an admixture of pixie milk and mug-drugs out on the street. Trying to force the Ministry's hand—get them to lift the moratorium and approve research to devise an antidote. Distributing the silver to wizards gets attention; distributing it to muggles raises the profile of the issue and makes it an auror matter. A very tidy plan, all in all."

"Except that people are dying," Roxanne pointed out.

"Well as you've mentioned, Blishwick doesn't seem all too concerned about that kind of thing."

"There's just one, very big, problem with this theory," she said before Perry could work himself up too much. "We haven't got a single shred of evidence."

"So?" Perry rolled his eyes.

Roxanne was forcibly reminded about what Harry had said—how he'd accused someone of a dark conspiracy. Lost control of himself. Broken into the wizard's house. Been sent to rehab.

"So, I can't just go accusing my former-boss without any proof!" Roxanne threw up her hands in frustration. "I assaulted an on-duty Healer in the course of his work—that's a criminal offence, even with the extenuating circumstances! Blishwick is _this_ close to pressing charges."

"And?"

"And with everything the Prophet's been saying about me, I 'd probably get convicted if this goes to trial. That's six-months-to-a-year in Azkaban!"

"Alright, so worst case scenario, you spend a few months in Azkaban," Perry said. "You're aunt's Head of the D.M.L.E. and Chief Sorceress of the Wizengamot—you'd definitely get out early for good behavior. And it's not like they have Dementors anymore, so what's the problem? Get a few tattoos, read some trashy novels—a few months in Azkaban is a walk in the park."

"I'd have a criminal record!" Roxanne shouted, furious at his lack of sensitivity.

"You're a bloody _Weasley_ , Weasley," Perry waved a hand. "No one cares if you assaulted some unethical wanker. Besides, if we're right, you won't go to Azkaban anyway."

"If," she reminded him.

Roxanne didn't like their plan. She didn't like their plan one bit.

She waited outside the briefing room at the auror office, her second visit of the day, and picked at a bronze upholstery pin on the leather armchair. Auror Bones brought her a cup of tea while Auror Finch-Fletchley fidgeted at his desk. His left ring finger was bare.

Finally, the briefing room door creaked open and Roxanne's heart sunk to see a bowed, ginger head emerge. Hugo spared her a look of deep betrayal before stalking away to the lifts without saying a word.

"Roxy—if you're ready," Harry called once Hugo had gone, so she gathered her rucksack and followed her uncle into the chamber.

In a brittle voice, she told him precisely what she wanted him to do. Harry looked just as surprised and bewildered as she'd expected.

"I know there's a lot of personal animosity at the moment—but from a Healing perspective, it's the right call," she said, summoning as much calm, and feigning as much objectivity, as possible. "Healer Blishwick is best qualified to treat any Silver users who come in to St. Mungo's."

Harry blew out a long breath and considered her carefully. "Pixie milk admixtures with muggle compounds is his forte—and we all know he's keen to research muggle chemistry," Harry agreed tentatively.

For an excited moment, Roxanne thought she might have seen something pass over his eyes. Perhaps he would come to the same suspicion that she and Perry had had. Perhaps they wouldn't need to go through with the scheme after all...

But it passed, and Harry resumed his business-like manner. "It would mean dissolving any relationship you have with the case," he pointed out. "No more consults, no more coming into the office. We can't risk you violating the restraining order."

"I understand," Roxanne nodded, misgivings roiling in her gut. _This is a terrible idea_ , she thought. "How long until Blishwick takes over patient care?"

"He might resist, if only to spite us," Harry admitted. "He's not too happy with Hermione at the moment—he knows she'll defend you if he tries to press charges. But even so, we can get an executive order. It shouldn't be more than a day until the ward's been set up."

"Good," Roxanne nodded. "Well I guess that's it for me, then..."

With her consulting privileges officially revoked, Roxanne left the Ministry and strode out into muggle London. Rather than apparating back to Baker Street, she headed instead toward the Strand area and slipped into the first fast-food restaurant she found.

Her shoulders tensed as she stepped into the putrid bogs. The toilet lacked both a lid and a seat, and hadn't been flushed. Finding no hook on the door to hang her rucksack, and disturbed by the sticky, damp floor, she washed out the sink and set her bag down in its porcelain basin.

She pulled out the wrinkled tartan skirt, stained striped jumper, and green nylons—stretched and smelling from having already been worn two days in a row. Stripping off her clean clothes in exchange for her dirty ones, Roxanne took care not to let her bare feet touch the filthy tile floor. Next, she poured a small puddle of olive oil into her palm and rubbed her hands together before working her greasy fingers through her hair. Lastly, she pulled out her makeup bag, and used shadow and red lip-pencil on her eyes.

The woman looking back at her from the cracked, graffiti'd mirror was even more convincing than the first time Roxanne had tried the disguise. Something deep inside her chest felt as though it were starting to harden, and her face seemed to betray that fact. Anyone who knew what to look for would find all she had seen writ behind her eyes. Roxanne no longer cared what that meant, only that it might now come to some utility.

It had seemed such a wise idea, at the time, to vanish the isolated components of the Silver. She'd never anticipated it might cause for later inconvenience.

And apparently, Perry and Roxanne had been successful in their attempt to get as much of it off the streets as possible. She returned to every dodgy alley, overpass, and backroom they'd visited that Tuesday, but the reply of every dealer was the same: _fresh out, love._

Roxanne made it all the way to Brixton before she found any Silver.

"Yeah, I can help you with tha'," the dealer said. He was sat on a low wall in the courtyard of a council estate, a cigarette perched between his lips. The words _LOVE_ and _HATE_ had been branded onto his knuckles. Further tattoos crept up his arms and neck almost to his jawline. He seemed loathe to make eye contact, and his nose had clearly been broken at least once. "Follow me then," he said, tossing the end of his fag onto the already rubbish-strewn grass.

The cramped little flat had hardly any furniture, and lacked anything that might make it 'homey.' No rugs, no throw pillows, nothing on the walls outside of a few hastily tacked up photos of bikini-clad women torn from a magazine. Two men sat on a lumpy old sofa in front of a telly smoking something that smelled like spliff from a glass cylinder filled with water.

"I can do two bags for ten," the man with the crooked nose told her as she stepped across the threshold onto the tacky lino. "How much were you after?"

In truth, Roxanne only needed a bag or two, but she figured she might as well take the lot. She pulled over a hundred pounds worth of crumpled bank notes from her skirt pocket to show that she was serious.

"Are you sure abou' tha'?" the dealer asked warily. "I dun' know about this stuff, if I'm honest with yeh." Something that looked like worry began to shadow his intimidating face. "Five of my mates are in hospital after usin' it," he admitted.

"I promise I'm careful," she said, rather at a loss for how to proceed.

"Be sure yeh are," he nodded. "I won' be stocking more of this stuff, believe."

Despite herself, Roxanne felt a surge of appreciation for the hardened criminal as she accepted the bags he tentatively passed over. For a wild second, she considered telling him she wouldn't actually be using the stuff—that she was trying to protect people by getting out of the hands of addicts—but knew that was probably a mistake. He might take her for a copper, might panic. His tattooed knuckles had certainly seen fights.

Instead she just said 'thank you,' and noted the way his brows arched up at the center with concern. The expression was almost child-like, like she could see the little boy he'd once been peeking out from behind those world-weary eyes.

It was a trick she'd learned long ago, back in Healer training. A method of finding compassion even for patients she might not personally like. Everyone had once been a child, a baby. Every person had once boasted a toothless grin, been giddy over receiving sweets, and asked why the sky was blue. No matter what someone might have become later, they had entered this world innocent and full of possibility. Remembering the child in everyone had been the best tool Roxanne had ever found for combatting scorn.

Perhaps, she thought, that was why Perry was so particularly skilled at accessing her deep reserves of patience—he was just so childlike, so lacking in self-awareness.

Roxanne had once confided this technique to Healer Blishwick, but he'd dismissed her as sentimental. She'd hoped it would inspire some sympathy in him for the spell damaged patients upon whom he wanted to experiment.

"Children are inherently manipulative," he'd said. "They are adorable for no other reason than that they have evolved to be, because they are otherwise helpless. It's nothing more than an adaptive strategy for survival."

In that moment, Roxanne had suspected that Rudyard Blishwick had burst forth from his mother's womb already middle-aged. His Healer certifications might have predated the signing of his birth certificate.

She thought about Blishwick all the way back to Baker Street. He was nothing if not a clever man—shrewd, and not easily fooled. Perry was no match for him.

"Did you get the stuff?" Perry asked, leaping from his armchair as Roxanne kicked off her shoes. She'd walked for more than three hours that day in search of the Silver.

"Yes, but I've also changed my mind," she sighed, collapsing at the kitchen table. "There's just too much wrong with the plan."

"What do you mean? It's brilliant!" he cried, pulling a cigarette out from his pack. "Elegant, even."

Roxanne's jaw couldn't help but drop. "Elegant?!" she demanded. "It's _hideous._ "

"It kills so many birds with the same stone!" he argued. "Everyone gets what they want; I get to investigate the suspect, you get to force me into drugs treatment. It's win-win!"

"Just promise me, if things go sideways—no matter what happens—I won't be implicated," Roxanne said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Perry sucked his cigarette. "It only confirms my reputation and there's still hope for yours."

"That's not what I meant!" she protested.

In truth, it was exactly what she'd meant.

Roxanne watched while Perry bent one of his spoons at the handle, curling it into a U shape. Unlike everything else he owned, the old cigar box containing his various paraphernalia was kept clean and ordered. With a practiced hand he scraped the silvery gunk into the bowl and added water from the tip of his wand using _aguamenti._ Roxanne couldn't help but reflect on the mastery with which he summoned the appropriate amount of fluid. Next, he held a flame beneath the spoon and the solution began to bubble.

"Cotton ball," he directed, and she obliged by dropping one in where it soon absorbed the liquid. She tried to combat her distress over the whole procedure by pretending herself that she was back at St. Mungo's, that it was just a potion like any other. A medical procedure.

Perry pierced the cotton with the point of the syringe and pulled back the plunger. Once he'd sucked it all up, he handed it out to Roxanne. She only blinked at him.

"What?" she asked after a pause. "I'm not going to dose you! I took an oath to ' _do no harm!_ '"

"You're not a Healer anymore," he rolled his eyes.

"I don't care—I don't like this and I think we should stop," she huffed. Perry's grey eyes held her gaze.

"How much experience do you have with IV injection?" he asked and it sounded like a leading question.

"None!" she shot back. Healers had much less savage means of administering potions.

"Exactly—we need the shots to be messy," he explained.

"This is too dangerous," Roxanne concluded, swooping up from her armchair. "I'll not be doing it."

"They're small doses," Perry insisted. "And we've already determined the purity and strength of the substance. Even if you gave me that whole shot at once, I wouldn't overdose. And like you said, you're a Healer. You're more than capable of keeping track of my vital signs."

She closed her eyes, shook her head, and with incredible unease, sat back down. "Alright, but I reserve the right to send you to hospital early if I think you're in any danger."

"I won't be in any position to argue," he assured her. "Come on, let's get some birds stoned."

It took Roxanne a moment to work out his convoluted metaphor. _Two birds, one stone. So many birds, same stone. Get birds stoned... Very fucking clever._

The clock struck midnight and she administered the first dose. Early on, he was still mostly functional. His eyelids drooped, and he lost track of what he was saying mid-sentence, but he was lucid enough to twist the rubber tubing around his own bicep. Sometime after dose number three he was capable of little more than gently drooling.

The nerve-wracking minutes trickled by as slowly as a dripping tap while an exhausted Roxanne kept watch from her armchair. She checked his breathing and heart rate every five minutes and continued to administer hourly doses as long as she was sure he was stable. The experience was both very tense and very boring.

By five in the morning, the injection site had become an angry, swollen red—which had been their goal. Perry hadn't allowed her to sterilize it.

Finally, the last of the syringe had been unloaded into his veins. Roxanne hastily changed her clothes, keeping the door open so she didn't lose sight of him (it's not as though he could see her, anyway, she figured). She wanted badly to have another shower, but that would mean leaving Perry unattended too long. Instead, she applied under-eye concealer and mascara in a rough approximation of how a well-slept person might appear.

With some relief, she crouched at long last before the hearth and tossed in a pinch of Floo powder. "Number Seven Hope Lane, Godric's Hollow!" she shouted into the flames. There followed a few dizzying seconds, her face flashing past so many fireplaces while her knees stayed planted on the stained carpet at Baker Street. Finally, the familiar sitting room warbled into focus, lit only by blue morning light.

"Harry!" Roxanne cried, summoning all of the anxiety she'd kept checked for the last several hours. "Harry it's Roxanne! Emergency!"

She could hear her aunt and uncle beginning to wake upstairs. First came gentle murmuring, then heavy footfalls on the stairs.

"Roxy? Where are you?" her uncle's groggy voice called out.

"Fireplace!" she hollered back. "It's Perry. I just came back to Baker Street to collect my things and I found him. I would have used that antidote again but I think he took the Silver and I'm not sure what it might do."

"Alright, I'm coming through," Harry said, jaw firm, as he stooped down to meet her eye.

Roxanne nodded, eyes wild with worry that hadn't needed to be manufactured, and crawled back out into her flat. She was still disorientated by her head's return to Baker Street when Harry marched purposefully out of the hearth. He didn't even bother dusting the soot off of his robes before examining Perry.

"You're right, it's the Silver," he concluded, eyeing the residue in the bag she'd carefully laid out for him to find. "I'll take him to St. Mungo's. You stay here—or go back to James' if you prefer—but keep away from the hospital. The restraining order is in effect as long as you don't need healing attention yourself."

"Right," Roxanne nodded, wringing her hands as Harry slung the unconscious young man over his shoulder. "Apparition point's out back, in the courtyard."

"Yes, I know," was all Harry said before departing.

Roxanne finally got her shower later that morning and took extra care dressing for the day. Choosing her most conservative outfit, and working extra hard to repair the damage on her abused hair, she might have been on her way to a job interview. She refused to offer the paparazzi further fodder with which to slander her. Win or lose, she would likely be photographed by the end of the day.

She apparated to Diagon Alley and set a course for James' flat. Most of the shops were still shuttered for the morning and the street was all but empty. Roxanne kept her eyes downcast as she trudged up the street. She was only a few metres from her cousin's front door when a blur of technicolour cut her off.

"Well aren't you the woman about town," Marga Skeeter beamed, closing in on her prey. "I was sorry to see you so out of sorts at the Diogenes Club."

In her shock, Roxanne struggled to find an excuse. Instead she replied, "I didn't realize you were there."

"Oh, I'm everywhere," Marga said, more enigmatically than could ever possibly be necessary. "And I hear things aren't going very well for your boyfriend?"

"No comment," Roxanne grit her teeth. "And he's not my boyfriend."

In the grand scheme of things, it might have been good that Roxanne had run afoul of the horrid journalist. At that moment, Jia Fawley stepped out the front door of James' building. Her blazing red dress robes boasted a long slit up the side, giving the distinct impression of 'evening wear.'

Jia and Roxanne shared a covert glance while Marga chattered on, too distracted to notice the young woman stealing from James Potter's apartment. Jia disapparated with a curt nod, successfully evading detection.

On its own, James bringing a supermodel home wasn't much of a story. But Jia's mother was the Deputy Head of the D.M.L.E., and The _Prophet_ liked to suggest that Madame Chang-Fawley and Harry Potter were embroiled in some kind of affair. That the two had gone on all of one date during their school days seemed enough evidence that there might be some 'unresolved feelings' between them. Roxanne could just imagine the headlines blaring _JAMES POTTER BEDS FUTURE SISTER-IN-LAW._

"Excuse me, I need to get on my way," Roxanne finally interrupted the reporter before marching up to her cousin's front door. By the time James answered, Marga Skeeter had disappeared from the street.

"What's up, Rox?" he asked as they stepped into his flat.

"If anyone asks, I slept here last night," she instructed.

"When clearly you didn't sleep," James cocked an eyebrow.

"I can't discuss it," she said, firm. "But I need you to do this for me."

"Give you an alibi?"

"I've done it for you," Roxanne pointed out. "I also distracted Marga Skeeter for long enough that she missed Jia walk-of-shaming out of your house—you need to be more careful."

The two cousins fell into a quiet staring contest. Roxanne surrendered first, collapsing exhausted onto James' sofa while she scratched her head absently. Perhaps she'd be able to get a nap in…

James had just putting the kettle on when a milk-white owl swooped in through the kitchen window, followed in quick succession by an ashen Scops.

"They're for you," James noted with surprise. "That gray one is Hermione's."

 _Roxanne_ , she saw her aunt's neat cursive as she tore open the parchment envelope. _I'm so sorry—Blishwick has pressed charges. You have two hours to surrender to the Ministry. We can beat this, but you'll have to make it within your allotted window, or you're technically a fugitive._

But try not to worry.

Love,

Hermione

Roxanne cursed loudly, surprising both owls as well as her cousin. She didn't know what might have caused Blishwick to change his mind. Wondering if it was possible that it might get any worse, she detached the second letter from the albino bird. Breaking open the sealing wax, she thought she recognized the coat of arms stamped therein.

 _Healer Weasley,_

I assure you that I would not have sent contact were this not an emergency situation. I hope you will forgive the intrusion, as well as my request for your attention. If possible, I would like to confer with you at your earliest convenience.

This letter will grant access and navigation to the private apparition site at my home. I suspect you would prefer avoiding detection as you arrive.

With Much Appreciation,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Two hours. Two hours to surrender to the Ministry, lest she be named a fugitive. She hurried outside with barely a farewell to her gaping cousin, both letters clutched in her fist, and rapidly calculated weighed her options. Mysterious summons from Perry's father, or obligation to the arrest warrant? Closing her eyes, she turned on the spot.

 _Two hours is a long time_ , she decided, focusing on the letter from Mr. Malfoy and letting it guide her to her destination.

Even before she opened her eyes, she could tell she was somewhere on Diurn Alley. She'd never before noticed that the street had its own smell, but indeed, the distinct aroma of coffee roasting at Leondardo's struck a familiar note.

Looking around, she realized she'd apparated into the courtyard of another apartment building. One marble fountain bubbled at its center and a dozen neatly pruned rose bushes lined the edges of the grass. Mr. Malfoy's letter withered into ash in her hand as though burnt by an invisible flame.

She stole inside the posh building and addressed the doorwizard on duty: "I'm here for Draco Malfoy?"

"Apartment thirteen," he replied curtly and the lifts burst open to accept her. Stepping in, she felt very, very awkward.

For her whole life, Draco Malfoy had been nothing more than half a face shielded with one hand—a grainy photo fending off the camera flashes—perennially splashed over the _Daily Prophet._ She knew little of the man, except that he had willed his family's Manor to the Ministry. In the event that the Malfoy name died out, it would be turned into a museum of the Second Wizarding War. Future schoolchildren would tour its cellars while guides explained the misery suffered by those who had been imprisoned there. The thrilling tale of her uncle's capture and heroic escape would likely be commemorated by a mural in its foyer.

In life, Draco Malfoy was a small man. His white-blond hair, further bleached by how it had grayed, receded sharply over a tall forehead. His nervous hands gestured that she take a seat, so she settled herself delicately on the cream sofa.

She practically had to squint her tired eyes against the brightness of his sitting room. Mr. Mafloy's flat was as pallid as the man himself, all whites and creams and taupes. There was an ascetic simplicity to the design scheme, with no heavy antiques or old family heirlooms on display. And there was something fragile about it, too. It was the kind of flat that required a careful sort of life—nothing ever spilled and everything kept in order. Roxanne couldn't imagine what it must have been like to share the delicate space with a teenaged Perry.

"Would you care for a refreshment—tea? Coffee?" he offered, but he never quite caught her eye. He was as soft-spoken as a mourner over a hospital bed, and the lines on his face had been eternally etched into a pained sort of grimace.

"Coffee would be welcome," Roxanne replied with as much warmth as she could manage in her exhaustion, trying not to let her curious eyes wander down his left forearm.

Rather than call out for his house elf, he strode into the kitchen and politely made his request. The well-dressed union elf followed with a silver tray of coffee, cream, and biscuits.

"It's about Scorpius," Mr. Malfoy finally said, retaking his seat across from Roxanne. "He's been arrested."

"Oh no!" she coughed on a sip of coffee, a great tide of guilt erupting in her chest and anxiety creeping at the nape of her neck. "What... What's happened?"

"He was caught trespassing in his Healer's private office," Mr. Malfoy replied, gaze still focused on his own white fingers. "He's still infirmed at St. Mungo's, but he faces a sentence at Azkaban."

"I'm so sorry," Roxanne hung her head.

"It certainly isn't your fault—and it won't be the first time Scorpius has been to Azkaban on some petty charge, but," the wizard paused. "I thought I ought to let you know, I suspect he is having another breakdown. He claims you have been working with him, investigating. I regret to tell you that Scorpius has never been of sound mind. He confided in me his suspicions about Rudyard Blishwick—they are reminiscent of delusions he has had in the past."

"Thank you," was all Roxanne managed to say.

"You can't understand how much I appreciate your befriending him, so I feel compelled to warn you—" For a moment, Roxanne felt certain that Draco Malfoy might cry. She didn't know what she would do if he did. But the moment passed, and he continued. "Right now, your priority should be protecting yourself. Wash your hands of him if you must."

Roxanne gazed out the wide parlor window at Diurn Alley waking up below in lieu of responding. She couldn't quite figure out her current location—probably because the building was unplottable. All those years she'd lived on Diurn and she'd never realized she was neighbors to Draco Malfoy.

"With that warning," Mr. Malfoy went on. "Scorpius wanted me to give you something—I urge you to disregard it." He rummaged through his robes pocket, and then handed her an envelope.

 _Another bloody envelope_ , thought Roxanne. Of late, they'd only brought trouble. She turned it over to find an inscription, scrawled in a messy hand: ' _the game is on._ '


	7. The Game is On

**The Game is On**

* * *

 **[12:20]**

 _In the event that you are currently having misgivings, know that everything is going according to plan._

'Currently having misgivings' was something of an understatement, and Roxanne couldn't remember 'get indicted on criminal charges' ever being part of the plan. She had just over an hour and a half to turn herself into the Ministry, lest she officially became a fugitive from the law. She read on:

 _One of your many cousins (ginger, if that narrows it down at all) visited a patient in the special ward for Silver abusers today. With great cunning, I managed to overhear their hushed conversation without being detected._

"The lot of it is stashed at my dad's—I need you to take it for me. Just hold on to it," the bedridden fellow, apparently a St. Mungo's orderly (he has certainly just lost his job), entreated.

"I told you not to mess around with that stuff, Ryan!" your cousin replied.

"I know I've fucked up," the orderly agreed. "But I need you to get my stash out before the Ministry raid."

"I'm throwing the lot of it away!"

"Don't!" the young man cried, before returning his voice to a whisper. "It was an advance from my guy—he's expecting at least a hundred galleons by the end of the month."

Here, your cousin generously offered to simply pay the one hundred galleons, but Ryan was having nothing of it, saying that it 'wasn't about the gold.'

"What do you mean, 'not about the gold?'" your cousin scoffed, quite reasonably.

"Just—just hold on to it for me, will you?" he begged.

The Weasley grudgingly acquiesced.

Shortly thereafter, Blishwick (hereafter referred to as 'the suspect') came into the ward to check on the lot of us. Outside of myself, everyone present (and conscious) seemed to want a private word. At first I believed they were distressed about their health, but soon realized that their concerns were indeed more nefarious.

"You should be lucky I warned you about the raids," the suspect told Ryan out the corner of his mouth while I feigned sleep. "Make sure you get it out of your house."

"It's done, sir," the orderly replied.

"You were foolish," the suspect hissed. "What were you thinking, trying it on yourself?"

At this juncture, my feigned snoring grew too loud, and I missed the rest of the conversation. I had, however, come to the same conclusion you are likely coming to as you read this: Ryan the Orderly was one of Blishwick's footmen, charged with distributing the Silver. Indeed, I suspect that each of the patients, save myself of course, were under his employ.

It clearly isn't out of concern for the young orderly that the suspect wants to keep him out of law enforcement's hands; rather, if Ryan is apprehended, he may be able to strike a deal for a reduced sentence in exchange for identifying the suspect. Blishwick knows this.

Task Number One: Convince your cousin to turn over the stash to the DMLE. It should be swimming in evidence that Ryan has handled it, thereby compelling him to stand as witness against the suspect. Complete this task before you continue reading.

Roxanne felt deep annoyance at being asked to obey a piece of parchment. Rolling her eyes, she turned over the letter to see what else he had written. The rest of the writing was just a jumble of random characters and runes.

"Tosser!" she seethed. "Clever little tosser!"

The text was enchanted, and the rest of his instructions wouldn't unscramble until she completed his first assignment. Perry must have gotten an excellent grade in Charms if he could manage psychic cryptography, Roxanne thought. With that sort of talent, he could have gone into any number of elite fields. For a moment, she vaguely wondered why he hadn't pursued a more illustrious career, before remembering that he'd been expelled from Hogwarts. And that he was rather mad. And a drug addict.

She had less than two hours to turn herself in.

Then again, it only took a few seconds to apparate to the Ministry. Remembering the conversation she'd witnessed on the balcony of the Diogenes Club, Roxanne reckoned she had a pretty strong idea of which cousin Perry had seen that day.

She figured she might as well try confronting Hugo...

 **[12:30]**

The Granger-Weasleys lived at the end of an isolated road in Ipswitch. While it was a predominantly, if not exclusively muggle area, Hermione had warded a large radius against apparition. Roxanne appeared a quarter mile away from her destination and trudged up the familiar road. Anxiety prickled at the back of her neck and she kept finding herself fretting with her hair.

Finally, she came to the largest and grandest magpie house on the road, made even more distinct by the shocking yellow hatchback parked at a crude angle in the drive. Its tires had cleaved two muddy trenches in the flower beds and its hood was crumpled from one too many run ins with sign posts. Despite his best efforts, Ron Weasley never had gotten the hang of automobiles.

Roxanne circled the house to the little garden cottage where Hugo had been generally wasting his life since leaving Hogwarts. It was common knowledge in the family that he was going through 'a phase.' The air thickened with the heady stench of spliff smoke as she approached.

"Cover me!" she heard him yell. A series of gunshots rang out. "Head for the tower! Now!"

She cleared her throat before rapping on his door. The muggle video game noises paused at once.

"What?" Hugo called.

"It's, uh, it's Roxy."

"Are you still trying to Scare Me Straight?" he shouted back. "Uncle Harry already did his bit. Consider me reformed."

"Listen, I'm not here to judge you, or tell you what to do—" _not entirely true_. "I need your help."

There was a pause, followed by the scraping of locks being unlatched. The door yanked open until the chain-lock pulled taut, leaving only a sliver of Hugo visible on the other side. His eyes appeared even more fiery than his rumpled hair; Roxanne had never seen him so livid.

"What?" he spat. "What could you possibly want from me, oh great _Healer Weasley_?"

"I need you to go to Harry and come clean about what your friend gave you." Roxanne tried to keep her voice firm. "You don't have to hold on to his stash for him—the Ministry needs to see it. Lives are at risk."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Hugo's face scrunched up.

"I know you visited St. Mungo's today—"

"No I didn't!" he snarled. "Why would I be?"

"I know you visited your friend Ryan," she insisted. "There's no point lying to me."

"Ryan? I don't know anyone named Ryan!" Hugo threw up his hands and Roxanne noticed his blue striped pajamas.

Shit, she thought, remembering that Hugo never woke up before noon.

"You mean Ryan _Davies_?" he went on. "That bloke was, like, five years above me at Hogwarts. We've never even hung out!"

All at once, Roxanne realized that she knew the orderly in question. Davies had always been charming, funny, and... not terrible to look at.

Roxanne tutted under her breath, furious at herself for jumping to conclusions. "Shit, Hugo, I'm so sorry. Do you... have any idea where your sister might be?"

 **[12:50]**

Rose lived on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, because _of course she did_. Not many people would want to live in such close proximity to their old school, but Rose wasn't most people. The eldest Weasley-Potter enjoyed running into old professors, and engaging with students visiting the village on weekends.

Roxanne clacked the knocker on her cousin's cottage door but no one answered. Cursing aloud, she remembered that Rose would be at the WPR studios doing her weekly radio show. At least, Roxanne thought, she knew the key-charms to the cottage.

The door creaked open to a familiar riot of color. The interior walls of Rose's home had each been covered by a different patterned wallpaper: black and white fleurs de lys, pink and green stripes, photoreal images of seashells. Roxanne stepped through a beaded curtain separating the front hall from the sitting room, and set to work searching the cottage.

" _Accio admixture-of-pixies-milk-and-black-tar-heroin_ ," she tried, but to no avail. " _Accio drugs_?" Nothing except a bottle of paracetemol, which nearly winded her as it collided with her stomach.

Of course Rose would be clever enough to ward an illegal stash from a basic summoning charm, but it had been worth a shot.

Searching by hand meant rifling through a thousand decorative boxes and vases. Roxanne shifted artificial grapes from an ornate bowl to check beneath, and pulled aside the gossamer shawls adorning every surface. Nikki had taken up temporary residence in Rose's small sitting room while in the country, which provided additional clutter for Roxanne to search. Finding nothing, she checked under the zebra-print sofa cushions and even rifled through Rose's underwear drawer. Outside of a rather impressive lace teddy, she found nothing of interest.

On her second sweep of Rose's medicine cabinet (hair potions, face lotions, some sort of strange muggle dental device from her grandparents), Roxanne noticed a bowl of potpourri sat beneath the sink. She then scanned the loo, and her eyes paused on the bare toilet tank. It wasn't like Rose to leave any surface unadorned, and so she lifted the lid—issuing an audible squeal of delight to see a bubble containing at least a hundred silver bags floating beneath the surface.

The plan had been to convince Rose to give up the narcotics herself, but Roxanne had only an hour left to surrender so this would have to do. She dropped the firm-membraned bubble into her purse and hoped that Rose—daughter of two former D.M.L.E. employees—had the presence of mind not to have handled the evidence with her bare hands.

 **[13:20]**

 _My next move was clear_ , read Perry's magically unscrambled letter. _I needed to search Blishwick's office._

Escaping from the heavily guarded ward proved no easy task. Two orderlies were stationed at the door, which led to a hallway and then another door, which required a hospital badge to exit. And I didn't have a wand.

As you know, orderlies are not permitted to carry wands while on duty (for precisely the reason I will soon elucidate). My only choice was to feign severe spasms.

I thrashed and wailed in my bed, screaming out with such ferocity you'd think my blood was turning to acid. The orderlies summoned a Healer (Clearwater? Do you know her? Nice woman.) Seeing my horrific state of distress, she unsheathed her wand. I fell instantly still. This inspired in her, as I had expected, a moment of advantageous hesitation. I leapt forth from my sick bed and seized her wand, like some carnivorous bird swooping down on her prey. At this point, the orderlies were rounding in, approaching me with caution. Every last patient what had his faculties about him was shouting, and I'll be the first to admit, I got rather carried away.

I stunned one orderly just as the second seized me from behind. Kicking out my legs I stepped up the wall, then successfully executed a backflip which pried my torso from his grip. I landed, catlike, on the floor, as he and Healer Clearwater rounded on me. In a truly thrilling display of further acrobatics, I managed to overcome the pair of them. After stunning my opponents, I cast sleeping charms on the noisy, bedridden patients.

I stashed one orderly, bound and silenced, under my bed after relieving him of his uniform and badge. I then transfigured my hair into a deep auburn (I've since discovered that the color does not suit me) and borrowed a pair of spectacles from the bedside of a patient (I'd suspected he donned them for purely aesthetic reasons. My suspicion proved correct).

During your tenure at St. Mungo's, did you ever once bother to look down at an employee's badge? If so, you were the only one. I stole through the hospital without detection.

My next challenge came in the form of gaining access to Blishwick's office, which I discovered to be password protected (I'm sure you remember—knock the knocker, answer the question, so on. I'd encountered such a device many times during my five year tenure in Ravenclaw House).

Indeed, I knocked, having been afforded great bravado from the adrenaline rush of my daring escape. The golden snake unwound its body from its golden staff, and turned up its gleaming head to meet my gaze. I guessed at random ('pumpernickel?'), but was foiled.

"I forgot—it's on the tip of my tongue," I lied (obviously). "May I have a clue?"

"Password hint," the metal snake answered metallically. "'Roxy gets one every morning.'"

I seriously considered offering one of many humorous answers that came to mind, but as the situation was rather serious, replied instead, "cappuccino."

I am now convinced that, whatever else was going on, you did indeed have an affair with Rudyard Blishwick. But I digress.

Despite having gained access to the suspect's private records, I'll admit I had little hope of finding any evidence. What sort of fool leaves records of their wrongdoing at their place of business?

But certain characteristics make fools of us all. I returned to what I knew about Blishwick: that he is clever, and arrogant, and ranks the virtue of innovation well above ethics.

I also knew that Rudyard Blishwick's goal had been that Silver abuse would enough harm to be discovered by the Ministry. It followed then that he would desire to grasp as much advantage out of this situation as possible. So rather than search for evidence of Silver manufacturing, I searched for evidence of its antidote.

Having already isolated the independent components of the narcotic myself, I had a rough idea of what might go into it. And indeed, evidence of antidote concoction was significant. But also useless. I'd already breached his private chambers via trespassing, and so it could be argued that I had intentionally contaminated his lab. I considered another route.

Blishwick wouldn't just create an antidote out of the singular desire to save victims—in fact, there was little benefit to him at all unless the substance could be patented. He also knew that, because of his unplanned conflict with you, the DMLE likely wouldn't call him in for a consult. And while he's an arrogant man, and probably assumed that a Ministry potions team wouldn't be able to brew an effective antidote before him, he's also a calculating man. He wouldn't want to run the risk that they could beat him to the discovery.

Before long, I found a completed patent application. Magically time-stamped, traceable to his wand, for June the 10th. Three days before the first Silver user showed up on Ministry or St. Mungo's radar.

I myself have been filing for patents since my second year at Hogwarts, so I am intimately familiar with the process. Unsubmitted patent-applications may be altered, at which point the time-stamp automagically adjusts to reflect the later date. Surely, he had intended to change his application to a more realistic time-frame before submission (it takes twenty-four hours to request a patent application, so he would still be ahead of the Ministry in the event that they determined the recipe).

It was with this damning piece of evidence in hand that I first heard the sound of voices approaching Blishwick's office door. At once, I levitated his desk, causing so many piles of carefully collated notes to flutter all around like the wings of birds in flight, and wedged the desk against the door. This move bought me some time, but not much. I managed to remove a painting from its frame (its subject was mercifully absent at the time), and slipped the patent application between the canvas and the wooden backing before warding it against summoning charms. I then leapt across the room and conjured the most casual position I could effect (If I remember correctly, I reclined, one knee bent up, my chin resting on one balled fist) at the precise moment that Rudyard Blishwick and two orderlies burst through the door.

"What do you think you're doing in here?" Blishwick growled.

"Oh, there you are," I said casually. "I've been looking forward to some one-on-one time."

"You think you're very clever don't you?" Blishwick snarled.

I then proceeded to respond with some sardonic one-liner, but for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. It'll come to me.

Anyway, as you probably know by now, I was arrested.

Blishwick's first priority will be finding the patent application (which he eventually will—it isn't all that well hidden), and adjusting the time stamp. If he succeeds, we will lose our most significant piece of evidence. Luckily, I bought us some time: I suggested to Blishwick that you and I were working together to take him down, inspiring him to press charges against you. He will be required to remain at the Ministry until a) you surrender yourself, or b) you become a fugitive (I highly encourage you to take the latter route; it would make you so much more interesting).

Roxanne folded Perry's letter in half. In a way, it was lucky for him that he was in custody; she would have killed him otherwise.

 **[13:30]**

Ardonon Dagworth, Ardy to his friends, was a burly man of twenty-nine with a loping gait and sandy blond hair that fell over a heavy brow. A few healers and other St. Mungo's employees offered him benign waves or nods when he entered the building. They had no reason to think anything of Ardy coming back from his lunch break.

And there had just been so much on that day! Between setting up the emergency unit on Ministry order and the mentally disturbed patient who'd escaped from the locked ward, the St. Mungo's staff could hardly be expected to notice any subtle shifts in Ardy's body language. His northern accent seemed mostly consistent anyway—you'd have to be listening carefully to hear how it warbled towards 'Londoner'.

Roxanne had been a friend of Ardy's, which made impersonating him a great deal easier, if more awkward. She hoped very badly that she wouldn't need to visit the toilets while the polyjuice was taking effect.

 _Task Number Two_ , Perry's letter had read. _Retrieve the patent application before Blishwick does. (If for some reason you have the narcotics you retrieved from your cousin, keep them on your person)._

A single hair, pulled from Perry's robes after he'd been apprehended, waited at the bottom of the envelope alongside instructions for finding his stash of polyjuice potion. He'd somehow managed to keep hold of Ardy's badge, as it too materialized after Roxanne read the instructions.

Out of sentimentality, she still had a pair of St. Mungo's robes. One quick color change charm shifted the tint from Healer Green to Orderly White. She then took a fifty-percent dilution of Polyjuice, as she'd only have half an hour to surrender herself to the Ministry anyway. Awkward questions might arise if she showed up wearing Ardonon Dagworth's body.

She may have been furious with Perry for inciting Blishwick to press charges, but she had to admit that it _had_ gotten him out of the hospital. If she could gather the evidence in time, it might even prove worth it.

 _I'm sure Blishwick has changed the password since I broke in, but he definitely won't think you're mad enough to breach the hospital. You'll probably be able to guess it (AS YOU TWO HAD AN AFFAIR AND ALL)._

"Ardy—you're needed in the new ward!" a mediwitch called, and Roxanne struggled to remember her name. "He's seizing again, and we have no idea whether he's faking this time. Healer Clearwater's requested backup—absolutely no wands."

"Right." Roxanne nodded and the mediwitch just stared at her.

"Um, _now_!"

Roxanne dithered on the spot. She had no idea where the new ward had been set up. In his letter, Perry had mentioned two sets of doors and a no-wand policy. Hazarding a guess, she cut a course toward the Recreational Magic Abuse Recovery wards.

"Dagworth, glad you're here," Penelope called out as Roxanne opened the door with the stolen badge. "Hold him down, will you?"

Perry was in a fit, tossing and spasming against his restraints. Roxanne began to worry that it wasn't an act after all, and pushed his shoulders down with both her hands so Penelope could sedate him. Then he winked.

"Just wanted to check we were on schedule," Perry said, falling still.

"What did he say?" Penelope furrowed her brows and peered down at her patient.

"I didn't catch it," Roxanne replied. "The seizing is probably a psych symptom, not the result of the narcotic."

Penelope's eyes narrowed. "Thank you, Ardy, but I don't remember calling you in for a consult. Leave the healing to the Healers."

"Right," Roxanne replied, stinging from the correction.

Perry tugged at her sleeve, then pointed down. _He's still under there_ , he mouthed. _The real Ardy._ Then, another exaggerated wink.

"Sorry, is that all, Penelope?" Roxanne asked before correcting herself. " _Healer Clearwater_."

"Quite," the Healer replied with another devastating glance. Roxanne stole from the ward quick as she could, hoping very much that she'd never been so dismissive to support staff when she'd been a Healer.

 **[13:40]**

Roxanne found, to her dismay, that Blishwick's office was now being guarded by two unfamiliar orderlies. Thinking of what Perry said, she glanced at their badges before addressing them.

"Heya Damien, fancy a break? Clearwater told me to take over for you," she improvised.

"Now?" the man named Damien replied and the other orderly looked put out. "I've only been on duty five minutes, Seb's been here for hours!"

"Sorry, got confused," Roxanne backtracked. "Seb, you're off. I'm taking over."

"Finally," Seb wheezed. "Blishwick told me to stand guard and not move for anything—that was ages ago. I haven't had lunch yet!"

"Take your time." Roxanne smiled. She watched Seb stroll down the corridor and out of sight. Just as soon as his whistling had completely faded, she stunned Damien. He slumped down into a mere pile of white robes on the floor.

It had only been a few days since she'd knocked on Blishwick's door, but the intervening period had been dense. It felt almost perverse, tapping the golden snake and staff against the gleaming oak. So familiar a gesture—the residue of a different life.

"What is Roxy's favorite color?" the snake asked.

Roxanne grit her teeth. "Magenta," she grumbled and the door swung open.

Either Perry had made a bigger mess of Blishwick's office than he'd let on in his letter, or the Chief Healer had searched it once already. Every filing cabinet had been rifled through, leaving a carpet of parchment strewn on the ground. Roxanne's heart thumped in Ardy's chest as she pulled the lone painting from the wall. Detaching the frame, she slipped one hand inside and groped. For several agonizing seconds, her fingers found nothing. Then, finally, they made contact with something neither wood nor canvas. She could have whooped with joy. Luckily, she didn't.

"He's been stunned!" someone shouted from outside the door.

"We told you to have two on duty at all times!" Auror Finch-Fletchley shouted.

"We did, I don't know where Seb's gone!"

"Has the office been breached again?" Finch-Fletchley demanded. "I just saw Malfoy; we're transferring him. He couldn't have escaped from Bones and gotten here so fast!"

"I'll gather the override password!" the St. Mungo employee cried before rapid footfalls rang away down the corridor.

Roxanne glanced at the clock. Five minutes to two o' clock. Five minutes until she was due to surrender, and she was trapped in Blishwick's office with at least a hundred bags of narcotics in her satchel.

She rummaged in her robes pocket for the last piece of Perry's letter and prayed it had come unscrambled. Tipping over the envelope, a silver ball no larger than a blueberry fell into her palm.

 _If everything has gone according to plan, you are currently trapped in Blishwick's office while St. Mungo's and/or Ministry employees gather the override password. Assuming my father isn't entirely useless, there will be a mysterious device in your (and I'm guessing here) left hand. Tap it once with your wand._

Roxanne did, and it began to swell and a seam emerged around the circumference. Prying it open with her fingernails she noticed them growing longer—manicured tips curving into neat ovals. The polyjuice was rapidly wearing off.

 _Now place all of our evidence inside, before tapping it twice more with your wand._

Rolling up the patent and dropping in the bubble of narcotics, she did as Perry advised. The metal sphere shrunk back down.

 _It should be small enough to smuggle into custody (given your quantity of hair, you probably wouldn't need to shrink it again, except you'll need to pass it back to me at your earliest convenience. Oh yeah, that bit's important: get it back to me.)_

"The override password is ' _Ataraxia Aponia_ '!" the St. Mungo's employee shouted from the other side of the door. The second hand ticked towards two o' clock. Roxanne's hair turned from sandy blonde to deep copper, shooting up and curling out like corkscrews.

She had just time enough to tear off Ardy's badge and pop the magical sphere into her mouth before Finch-Fletchley exploded through the heavy door. Her wand clattered to the ground as she tossed up her arms.

"I suwwendow!" she yelled, cheeking the evidence.

 **[14:00]**

"Healer Roxanne Minerva Weasley, you are hereby charged with aggravated assault on an on-duty Healer during the course of his work, violation of a restraining order, unlawful trespassing, and conspiracy to commit harassment," the auror recited the charges while binding her hands behind her back. "You will be transferred to the Ministry where you will await trial for these and any further charges you may accrue or that may come to light, including suspected assault on a St. Mungo's orderly. Do you understand?"

"Mhm," Roxanne replied, keeping her lips pursed tight over the precious metal ball.

None of it seemed real, and most of it seemed absurd. _Conspiracy to commit harassment_ sounded made-up. Now that her worst anxieties had come to pass, she felt numb. She realized how long it had been since she'd slept.

Finch-Fletchley frogmarched her through St. Mungo's for all of her former colleagues to see. The marble lobby teemed with reporters and their flashing cameras. She didn't even bother speculating at what the headlines would read.

Auror Bones held Perry in place with her wand. He'd been bound not only at the wrists, but around the torso as well as at the knees and ankles. Roxanne almost felt jealous that she hadn't been detained by such extreme measures herself. _I too am a force to be fucking reckoned with_ , she thought.

"Ready for transport." Finch-Fletchley stopped walking long enough to relay the message into a compact mirror, leaving Roxanne within arms reach of Perry—if she could move her arms. In that small second of possibility, in perfect view of the ravenous photographers, Roxanne leaned out and kissed him square on the mouth. The lobby exploded with camera flashes, as bright and blinding as a supernova.

Perry cracked a triumphant grin, and then, to Roxanne's horror, she saw the muscles of his throat contract into a gulp.

He'd just swallowed the evidence.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Special thanks to Shez for being a killer beta on this chapter!_

'Ataraxia' _and_ 'Aponia' _are terms related to Epicureanism (meaning 'tranquility' and 'freedom from bodily pain' respectively). I thought Epicureanism suited Blishwick interestingly, though I don't think he's really a stellar manifestation of it (he probably thinks he is, though)._


	8. It's Time to Go Now

**It's Time to Go Now**

* * *

Beside the Wizengamot chambers stretched a long corridor, its many steel doors leading to narrow holding cells for defendants awaiting trial. Roxanne Weasley's surrender to Ministry personnel had been close cut, to say the least, designating her a 'flight risk.' As a result, the aurors had thought it prudent to lock a heavy manacle round one of her ankles.

On the other side of the stone wall, distinguished witches and wizards in billowing plum robes readied themselves for that morning's emergency trial. Few could remember such a sensational case. The wizarding news media had gone into overdrive the previous day in their attempt to cover every nuance, rumour, and speculation. Former Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt massaged the bridge of his nose and flipped through his morning _Prophet_ trying to make sense of it all. He noted, with some amusement, that Marga Skeeter's usual commentary was conspicuously absent. For a whimsical moment he imagined that she had become overwhelmed by the potential of the story and simply stayed home. The standing facts were already so much wilder than anything she could manufacture.

Back in her cell, Roxanne Weasley was oblivious to the Wizengamot assembling just a few metres away. She was oblivious to the frenzied _Prophet_ reporters picking her apart. She was oblivious to everything, for she had arrived at the Ministry the previous day exhausted and had fallen asleep just as soon as she'd been locked into her chamber. With shot nerves and a tired mind, she'd slept deep and heavy. And while she slept, she smiled.

Hermione Granger gazed down at her niece, round features relaxed and peaceful, and almost didn't want to wake her. An orange streak scuttled across the stone floor and Hermione stamped her foot down. She missed, and the insect slipped to safety inside a vent. As head of the D.M.L.E. and Chief Sorceress of the Wizengamot, she made a mental note to have the cells fumigated against pests, resenting that their upkeep had fallen by the wayside. Even if the suspect in question hadn't been her own niece she should still have a right to the dignity of clean quarters.

Checking her watch, Hermione afforded Roxanne a few more seconds of delicious ignorance before calling her name and yanking her into the harsh waking world.

"What _were_ you thinking?" Madame Granger sighed taking a seat beside the defendant.

"I was thinking a great number of things," Roxanne said, pulling herself up to sitting. Neither woman flinched as the chain anchoring her leg to the wall clattered to the floor.

"I've brought you some proper clothes," Hermione said, passing over a neat stack of robes. "And I picked this up from your father's shop."

Roxanne accepted the bottle of Instant Shower Spray, but noted with regret that her aunt hadn't brought anything for her hair—no moisturizing potions, no afro pick, not even a head scarf to wrap it back like the kind she'd worn at St. Mungo's. She'd slept without her silk turban again, leaving her hair a tangled mass flattened on one side. Roxanne had never learned how to braid her hair without her wand, and while Hermione might have had a great many talents, styling textured hair was not among them.

"So will you be acting as my counsel today?" Roxanne pulled her arms into her green Healer's robes to lift them off.

"Yes," Hermione said, averting her eyes while Roxanne undressed and misted herself with the hygiene potion.

"If you're defending me, then who's presiding over the hearing?" the younger woman asked, tugging the change of clothes over her head.

"Headmistress McGonagall."

Roxanne looked pleased. "Well that's not so bad!"

"It's not about convincing _her_ ," Hermione sighed. "You're being tried by a full assembly of the Wizengamot. And… You've been in the press quite a bit."

"I'm sure." Roxanne snorted. Her aunt looked jarred by her cynical calm.

"The reality is that some of these charges…" Hermione measured her words carefully. "Well, 'conspiracy to commit harassment' is completely trumped up. Blishwick was just being desperate. But the assault charges are troubling, and there's no way around the fact that you violated your restraining order."

"What are my options?"

"Distance yourself from Mr. Hume," Hermione admitted.

"Wait—you won't be acting as his counsel too?" Roxanne spluttered. "We're co-defendants!"

"Considering everything, it's in your best interest to consider your cases independently—"

"He can't go without representation!" Roxanne cried.

"He won't." Hermione held her gaze, keeping her voice even. "Harry will be speaking on his behalf."

Roxanne's chest tightened as the minutes to her hearing ticked away. _No matter what happens_ , she reminded herself, _I did the right thing._

There remained a very real possibility that Roxanne would face time in Azkaban. The charges she'd once been so afraid of facing seemed like nothing compared to the newer sentences for her crimes pursuing Blishwick. _But to not have tried, to have left it all alone_ … All she could do now was present her evidence and even if she went down, at least she'd drag the Chief Healer along with her.

 _Evidence_. Roxanne bristled as she thought about it. She'd been so certain that Perry would know what she was doing when she'd kissed him—that he'd realize it was a trick to pass over the magical sphere. In fact, she'd been pretty certain he was gay. She hadn't expected that he might think it was a genuine act of affection. That he'd be so surprised he'd _swallow the fucking evidence._

Aurors Bones and Finch-Fletchley interrupted Roxanne's miserable ruminations, wrenching open the reinforced door.

"They're ready for you," Auror Bones said as she unlocked Roxanne's manacle with a flick of her wand. "You won't be chained during the hearing, don't worry."

"Thank you," Roxanne said, offering the auror a smile.

"Just don't do anything stupid, like try to run off," Finch-Fletchley added, and Roxanne indulged him the most withering glare she could muster.

All at once, Roxanne was being lead into the Wizengamot chambers. The fifty-odd witches and wizards sat in ascending rows up the auditorium. Most were elderly with wild white hair and heavy jowls, and looked almost like a flock of roosting pigeons. Their covert whispers sounded everything in the world like cooing.

Roxanne took her seat and tried to keep her wits about her. She was almost giddy from stress.

"Roxanne Minerva Weasley," Headmistress McGonagall called and Roxanne had to admire her namesake's professionalism. "You are being tried this day for two counts of assault on a St. Mungo's employee engaged in official duty, one count of unlawful trespassing, and one count willful violation of an official restraining order. Do you understand these charges?"

"I do," Roxanne agreed.

"Acting Chief Sorceress McGonagall and members of the Wizengamot," Hermione began. "As Miss Weasley's official counsel today I would like to request that her case be reviewed independently from Mr. Hume's."

"She will still need to stand as witness in the charges against Hyperion Hume," McGonagall reminded Hermione. "And any new evidence that comes to light during his trial may affect her sentencing."

"I understand," Roxanne said before her aunt could protest. "And I plead guilty of all charges currently laid before me. I waive my right to offer any defense for my behavior."

The impact of her statement echoed through the stunned courtroom. McGonagall's eyebrows disappeared under the brim of her ceremonial hat. The wizarding judiciary fell silent for the space of a breath before a hushed murmur shivered across the chamber. Hermione did not look amused by Roxanne's stunt. But it _had_ forced her hand.

Hermione rushed to remedy the situation. "It is my belief that several extenuating circumstances contributed to Miss Weasley's course of action. I request that any sentence Miss Weasley receives be adjusted once further testimony has been reviewed."

Further whispering erupted in the courts and Deputy Head of the D.M.L.E., Madame Cho Chang-Fawley, consulted her scroll of by-laws before nodding in agreement.

"Very well." McGonagall gave an almost indiscernible shake of her head. "Miss Weasley, for the assault of on-duty Healer, Rudyard Blishwick, you are sentenced to six months in Azkaban prison. For the assault of on-duty St. Mungo's orderly, Damien Fitzgibbon, you are sentenced to six months in Azkaban prison. For the crime of violating a restraining order, you are sentenced to one month in Azkaban prison. For the crime of unlawful trespassing, you are sentenced to one month in Azkaban prison. This sentencing is preliminary, pending the trial of Mr. Hyperion Hume. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Roxanne said, mouth dry. And so it was.

 _More than a year_ , she thought. _If Perry's hearing doesn't go well, I'll be in Azkaban for more than a year!_

She could have cried, she could have fainted, she could have screamed—but mostly, she just wanted to laugh. So instead she said nothing, and got led to the sidelines by Susan Bones to await Perry's trial.

"I respect your loyalty," the auror said out the corner of her mouth. "I just hope it's been well placed."

"As do I," Roxanne murmured.

It took much longer to read out all of Perry's crimes. He'd been accused on over a dozen criminal counts as well as several petty charges. Still peaky-looking and haggard from his stay at St. Mungo's, his smirk didn't waver as he rolled his head on his shoulders and peered out at the press corps. It unnerved Roxanne to see how bored he looked and she privately wondered if he was still high.

To make matters worse, Rudyard Blishwick had arrived. He sat in the complainant box directly in her line of sight. Looking at his clean-cut silhouette made her almost dizzy, like a superimposition of two impossible images. 'Chief Healer at St. Mungo's' hung like translucent film over the scheming, shadowy suspect she'd so relentlessly investigated. That same strong jaw and furrowed brow were made uncanny by everything she now knew. Roxanne had done the math; he must have started his plans for Silver months back, while she had still been working with him.

She could see his act now. His carefully curated expression—a mix of weariness and deference. His populist business robes—modern enough to garner liberal sympathy yet professional enough to endear conservatives. The courts would eat it up; he looked everything that a decent, respectable wizard should look.

Not as much could be said for Perry.

"Mister Hume—that is an assumed name, is it not?" Blishwick's barrister stood up and approached the podium. "You were born Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, isn't that right?"

"Objection," Harry interrupted. "The question is irrelevant."

"Sustained," agreed McGonagall.

"Fine." The barrister switched gears. "You've accused respected members of the magical community before, haven't you? This isn't your first time facing harassment charges, is it?"

"This is my first time accusing Healer Rudyard Blishwick of conspiracy to distribute a lethal narcotic," Perry replied breezily.

" _Right_." The barrister smirked. "And as in your other, ah, 'cases,' you were under the influence of mind altering drugs?"

Roxanne knew what the barrister was doing—trying to make a fool of Perry. To make him seem ridiculous. It wasn't a bad strategy, she thought, seeing as Perry _was_ rather ridiculous.

"I'll remind you that the substance in question does not yet bear any legal classification in terms of use or possession," Perry shot back. "And as Healer Blishwick's currency happens to _be_ mind altering drugs, it was a necessary action in order to gain access to the suspect."

"I'm sorry." Smith smiled, throwing up his hands in mock frustration. He was clearly directing his mirth more to the Wizengamot than to Perry. "But before we have to hear any more of Mister Hume's delusions, I have to ask: do you have any evidence to substantiate your claims?"

 _Evidence._ Perry only gulped. Roxanne prickled with anxiety.

"Well?" the barrister pressed.

Perry grew pale, Adam's Apple bobbing in his throat.

"An answer, please," the barrister demanded with maddening superiority.

Perry continued to gulp, still not saying a word. Roxanne leaned forward from her seat in the audience.

And then he vomited.

" _Bloody hell_!" the barrister cried, leaping away from the putrid flecks spattering off the flagstone. Most of the Wizengamot recoiled and Roxanne threw her hands over her mouth. Behind her fingers, her lips stretched into a wide grin.

"If the defendant is too ill to proceed—" Madame Chang-Fawley began but Zacharias Smith interrupted her.

"He isn't ill, it's all those drugs he's on! We should just cart him off to Azkaban here and now!"

Roxanne wondered if flustering the barrister had been a part of Perry's plan.

"Esteemed members of the Wizengamot, I present." He gave a dramatic flourish of his hand toward the puddle of sick. "My evidence."

Auror Finch-Fletchley had to restrain Smith, who seemed intent on strangling Perry. The whispers of the onlookers grew louder as chaos mounted in the auditorium.

"Will _everyone_ please _calm down_ and behave like _civilized adults_!" McGonagall hissed through gritted teeth. All at once, the chattering Wizengamot fell silent.

"Head Auror Potter," Perry said. "Just there, if you'd like to tap it with your wand, please."

In a display of incredible patience, Harry approached the mess and prodded the silver ball. Roxanne felt relieved to watch it swell and then crack open.

"You'll find inside a completed but unsubmitted patent application from Healer Blishwick, timestamped for several days before the narcotic known colloquially as 'Silver' first came to the attention of St. Mungo's staff."

"This is ridiculous!" the barrister cried. "That doesn't prove anything!"

"I would also like to call two surprise witnesses," Perry went on over the protestations of the offended court. "Ryan Davies and Rose Weasley."

McGonagall tried to call for order again, but failed. The Wizengamot had reached a fever pitch and could not be quieted.

"I would like to request a recess!" Harry shouted over the din. "In order that the Auror Office may review this new evidence!"

"You have two hours," McGonagall called back. "And I expect that everyone will use that time to _find their heads_."

"Professor McGonagall," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, approaching the weary old sorceress at her podium. Most of the Wizengamot had left the chambers for the recess, leaving the auditorium all but empty. "I wonder what you're making of all of this?"

"Very little as yet," she sighed with just an edge of humour. "The entire trial has become something of a circus. And it is difficult for me to ignore the fact that Mr. Hume has done something like this before."

"That's actually what I was hoping to discuss." The former Minister took a seat beside the acting Chief. "I remember reviewing that case and… Mine was a minority opinion."

"You believed his previous accusations?" McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

"I can't make any determinations," he replied diplomatically. "But I will say that some of his theories were… Not totally without merit—however mad they might have sounded."

She gave a wry chuckle. "I'll agree that they sounded mad!"

"Mr. Hume was far from lucid at the time," Kingsley admitted. "But I just thought you ought to know, in the sake of fairness: under different circumstances, he might have been able to make an interesting case against Jim Moriarty."

Back in her cell, Roxanne scratched absently at her long neglected scalp while her guilt mounted. Calling Ryan and Rose as witnesses meant asking them to implicate themselves in drugs trafficking. Rose's reputation would be devastated if she admitted to what she'd done, and it wouldn't help Hermione's political campaign either.

Telling the truth was, Roxanne knew, the right thing for Rose to do. But it could mean facing criminal charges herself, perhaps even prison time. She'd likely lose her radio show on WPR—and whatever else she might have done, she'd done good work through her show. In the last year, Rose Weasley had emerged as an important progressive voice in Wizarding Britain. She'd argued against the presumption that modern magical society was 'post blood status,' and helped mobilize activists all over the country in demonstrations against everything from rural poverty to non-human employment discrimination.

One panicked decision—under coercion no less—and Rose would now fall under greater press scrutiny than any she'd thus far experienced. Just having touched narcotics, not even having manufactured or distributed them, was enough to undo her years of hard work. It would blemish every one of her accomplishments.

 _Why, Rose?_ Roxanne thought bitterly. _Why couldn't you have just been perfect? You knew how many people wanted you to fail…_

Slouching down on her hard cell bench Roxanne dug both hands into her hair in frustration. The bite of nails against skin brought a small measure of relief, but the anxious itch kept creeping and traveling so that her fingers were never in the right place. Itching, she remembered, was as much a psychological symptom as it was a physical one. She let her hands drop and tried to ignore it.

Luckily, the true source of the aggravation soon became clear. A complicated hour followed before Roxanne knocked on her door to signal a guard.

"What is it then?" Auror Bones slid open the cover on the door window.

"I'd like to invoke my right to face my accuser," Roxanne announced. The auror looked surprised.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Not really," Roxanne admitted. "But it's my right."

"You might want to confer with Madame Granger—"

"No." Roxanne cut her off. "Just… Bring me Blishwick."

Roxanne was pacing, dragging the heavy chain behind her on the stone floor when Rudyard Blishwick arrived. She was relieved to see that he hadn't brought his barrister.

"Fifteen minutes until the end of recess," Auror Bones reminded the pair of them before closing the door again. The sound of the latch engaging echoed in the cell.

"Roxy," he said.

"Healer Blishwick."

"You should be smart enough to know that it's over. Cut your losses," he advised.

"I'll do no such thing," she smoldered. "The aurors will verify the timestamp on your patent application—they've probably already traced it to your wand. They'll find evidence that Davies handled the narcotics, and he'll tell them that you supplied him."

"The patent application is circumstantial." Blishwick waved a hand. "As for Davies—it's my word against his. Turning on me means he'll get a lighter sentence. It casts doubt on his testimony."

"Why did you do it?" Roxanne pivoted. "People have _died_ , Rudyard."

"You always refused to see the big picture." He shook his head. "You cling to your morals and your ethics because it's the easy thing to do. You know as well as I do that your aunt's laws are misguided."

"Then petition to change them!" Roxanne cried, temper rising. "Lobby the appropriate offices!"

"My methods are rather faster," Blishwick said.

"YOUR METHODS HAVE KILLED PEOPLE!"

"Casualties in service of a greater good, and none of them of even remote value," he shot back. "I'm trying to do life saving research, Roxy. Don't you think that true heroes devastated by the wizarding wars are worth that? Worth more than drug addicts and bottom-feeders?"

"I don't think it's up to _you_ to decide which lives matter," she hissed.

"I see I can't change your mind," he offered after a pause. "But those lives have already been lost. You may not agree with my means, but you can certainly appreciate my ends. Yes, people have died as the result of a narcotic I manufactured, but revealing that now would only mean that they died in vain."

"It's the right thing to do."

"The right thing!" The Healer laughed. "Do not be so sentimental. Your conscience is not more precious, Miss Weasley, than the life saving innovations possible if my plan works."

A pause, then, "What would you have me do?"

"Rescind your accusations," Blishwick replied. "I'll drop the charges—assault, trespassing, violating the restraining order. I can even pull some strings and make the assault on Fitzgibbons go away."

"That would be a pretty stunning reversal," she pointed out. "How would I pull it off without seeming suspicious?"

"That Skeeter woman already came up with a convincing story: say we had an affair. It drove you to act rashly, and in your mania, you got embroiled in Mr. Hume's delusions."

"You want me to play the 'hysterical woman' card?"

"It is an effective card to play."

 _Fuck you._ The words twisted on her tongue, blocked only by the cage of her gritted teeth. They both knew the rumour was much older than Skeeter's article. Speculations about them had whispered through the halls of St. Mungo's for months— _years_ , even. And why? Because she was beautiful (young, female), he was renowned (older, male), and people were bloody idiots. All research teams had close, even intense relationships. _That was the nature of the goddamn job_. No one ever batted an eyelash unless a pretty girl was involved.

The whispers had been fine, even when she'd had to spurn his occasional hand on the small of her back, because she knew that her work and professionalism were beyond reproach. He hadn't made it easy but she'd won his respect in the end.

That is until she punched him in the face, inspired a scandal, then resigned in disgrace. But even having lost her title and position, the work she'd accomplished at St. Mungo's still stood. She'd still earned everything she'd accomplished.

And now Blishwick was asking her to lie and give up the only things she had left of her ruined career. Everyone would believe it. Of course they would. _Older man, younger woman, close quarters…_ Fury swelled in her chest and crept down the nape of her neck, but she kept her face calm. Smiled, even.

"That will be all, Healer Blishwick. You may go."

Seeing him lose composure gave her incredible satisfaction. "But you'll—you've agreed? You won't tell the courts what we've discussed here?"

"Even if I did." Roxanne smirked. "It would just be my word against yours, right?"

The Wizengamot chambers were crowded and hectic after the recess. Word of the outrageous trial had spread through the press corps and reporters from every major outlet clamored for their spot in the auditorium. Acting Chief Sorceress, Minerva McGonagall, had had her temper tried to its absolute limits.

"Flash photography is expressly forbidden!" she shouted as she confiscated Dennis Creevy's camera. "I will not have you distracting the proceedings."

"You can't block the corridor like that!" Madame Chang-Fawley bellowed at a gaggle of correspondents from the _Quibbler_. "Standing room is full so you'll have to leave."

Just as soon as the Wizengamot officials banished journalists to the overflow chamber, more snuck in through the side doors.

"If you cannot follow the rules of the courts we will reclassify this trial as a _closed session_ ," Kingsley Shacklebolt threatened from the upper row of the auditorium. "Jordan, Fitzgerald, Pickett, Braithwaite—you're fine in here. The rest of you, out!"

The swarm of of reporters grumbled into the corridor allowing the aurors to bring in the defendants. Acting Chief McGonagall closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, nostrils flaring with frustration, before reintroducing the issue at hand: "the case of the People vs. Hyperion Hume vs. Rudyard Blishwick vs. Hyperion Hume is hereby called to session."

Clemence Fitzgerald and Henry Pickett giggled from the press seats loud enough to inspire a devastating glare from McGonagall. They quieted at once.

"I will remind all present to behave with the decorum appropriate for the wizarding high court," she continued with a sniff. "I now call upon the first witness to the defence-dash-prosecution: Miss Rose Nymphadora Weasley."

Roxanne watched her cousin rise to unsteady legs, noting her slow, shaky steps to the witness stand. All color had fled Rose's face and Roxanne closed her eyes tight against her guilt.

"Miss Weasley," McGonagall began. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has received new evidence in the form of illegal narcotics. Miss Weasley—I should say, Miss _Roxanne_ Weasley—claims that she recovered the material from your place of residence in Hogsmeade. Is that true?"

Rose's scared eyes searched the auditorium before lingering on her mother. Roxanne saw Hermione give her daughter a somber nod.

"I—yes," Rose squeaked, gazing down at her knees in shame.

"Mr. Hume claims that you did knowingly and willingly collect this material from the residence of Mister Ryan Davies in order that it not be discovered by a Ministry Raid. Is this true?"

Rose's eyes swam with tears as she nodded, jaw trembling.

"Let the records reflect that Miss Rose Weasley nodded in the affirmative," McGonagall told the court scribe. "Thank you, Miss Weasley. For the crime of trafficking unapproved narcotics, you are sentenced to five hundred hours of community service. For conspiracy to subvert a Ministry investigation, you are sentenced to three months in Azkaban Prison. These sentences are preliminary, pending further discussion from this court."

For a confused second, Rose looked like she wasn't sure whether or not she was free to go. It took an encouraging nod from McGonagall before she stood and wavered out of the chamber. McGonagall called for Ryan Davies next.

The once-handsome orderly was pushed in on a hoverchair by a pair of St. Mungo's healers. Dark-circled eyes peeked out behind greasy hair, and his lean muscular arms had been bandaged to treat the rotting injection sites. Instead of professional robes, he wore his white patient gown. To Roxanne's further chagrin, Blishwick's barrister rose to speak for Davies.

"Acting Chief McGonagall, it is Mr. Davies' right to withhold giving testimony against himself. If the Wizengamot would like to compel the witness to speak, you must first officially charge him and try him in a separate hearing."

"That is only if Mr. Davies chooses not to give testimony against himself," McGonagall pointed out.

"Why should he implicate himself in any crimes in order to prolong this absurd charade that Mr. Hume has engineered?"

"Objection!" Hermione cried, leaping to her feet. "Mister Hume is not currently being questioned and so counsel should not accuse him."

"Objection overruled," McGonagall sighed. "I'm sorry, but this _is_ rather a mess, and it's rarely clear who exactly is on trial."

"Ryan," Hermione addressed the witness. "If you agree to a fast-track hearing your preliminary sentencing can be adjusted to reflect your value to the court. The aurors have reviewed the evidence. If you've handled it, you'll lose an individual hearing and receive the maximum sentence."

"I—" Ryan shook his head. "I'll talk, just… Let's get on with it."

Blishwick's barrister retreated, frustrated, to the complainant stand. Rather than feel relieved, Roxanne felt ambivalent. It didn't seem fair to coerce Ryan into bearing witness against himself. Then again, it _also_ didn't seem fair that he might receive lighter sentencing if his testimony lead to Blishwick's conviction. Misgivings rumbled in her gut. The further this went on the less it seemed like any good might come of it. Perhaps, she thought, Blishwick had been right. Perhaps it wasn't worth revealing his schemes and losing any reward that might have come of them…

"Mr Davies," McGonagall addressed the witness. "Miss Rose Weasley claims that you asked her to collect a parcel of narcotics from your place of residence in order to subvert a Ministry—"

"Yes, I did it," Ryan cut McGonagall off. "I asked Rose to hide the drugs."

"And had you intended to distribute this material—"

"Yes, I'd been selling it, and I was meant to sell the rest," Ryan replied, his face contorting with frustration and regret.

"And from where did you acquire these narcotics?" McGonagall asked, more gently.

"From Blishwick, alright! Healer Rudyard Blishwick. He approached me a while back—I'd been caught smoking spliff on my break, and he told me he wouldn't fire me if I helped him unload the stuff."

"Objection!" the barrister cried. "Mr. Davies' testimony is clearly given under duress. It is his word against my client's."

"Objection… sustained," McGonagall sighed and Hermione exploded with a squawk of disbelief. "If it's alright with you, counsel, I think it'd be best to move on, and call up your client next."

To Roxanne's shock and horror, Ryan was still sentenced for his confession to narcotics dealing. Hermione shook her head as the Healers lead Ryan away. Chewing her thumbnail, Roxanne watched Blishwick take his seat.

"Healer Blishwick," Harry said, standing up before the court. "We have recovered your patent application, dated June the tenth, for an antidote to the substance referred to as 'Silver.' I'm confused as to how and why you managed to brew this antidote _prior_ to the narcotic's discovery."

"I don't know what you mean by 'prior to,'" Blishwick said easily. "An overdose patient was brought in on June the first and it was then that I discovered the foreign material in her system. It was mostly by luck that I managed to surmise a possible antidote in a short time—I'm still not even certain it would work. It hasn't been tested."

"Healer Blishwick, you've said you treated this patient on the first of June," Harry went on. "The first recorded case of a Silver user in St. Mungo's was June thirteenth."

"No, it was definitely on the first of the month." Blishwick shook his head. "My full report should be on record at the hospital."

"It isn't," Harry replied.

"That's certainly unfortunate. Although not uncommon." The Healer smirked. "St. Mungo's loses records from time to time."

"Who was this patient?"

"A Jane Doe," Blishwick shrugged. "Some addict—found unresponsive on the street in Knockturn Alley."

"And where is she now?" Harry pressed.

"Incinerated. The patient expired upon arrival."

"You said someone brought her in from Knockturn. Could this individual verify your story?"

Blishwick flashed a maddening smile. "I didn't exactly get his _name_ , Auror Potter, and I imagine you can hazard a guess as to _why_ he didn't offer it. I may be able to recognize him, if I saw him again. He could verify what I've told you at a later date."

Roxanne tutted and fidgeted in her seat. Blishwick was more than capable of finding some wretched Knockturn denizen and bribing them into providing false testimony. It seemed, to her frustration, that Harry had been stonewalled. Blishwick had been right—the patent application was less of a coup than she'd originally thought.

"I wonder," Harry went on in a dangerously benign tone. "Why you didn't alert the Ministry straight away. If you managed to brew an antidote, you certainly would have realized that the narcotic contained a troubling admixture of magical and muggle compounds."

"Well, heroin is a derived _organic_ compound—not necessarily unique to muggle sciences," Blishwick replied, but Roxanne could hear worry tinging his smooth voice.

"Aspirin is certainly a muggle compound, though," Harry pointed out. "And isolated caffeine is, as far as Ministry potioneers can tell, unique to muggle pharmacology. A potioneer as renowned as yourself should have recognized these muggle fingerprints."

"And I will remind you that I am less squeamish than some about the blending of magical and muggle innovation," Blishwick shot back, more heated than he'd so far been. "My conflict with Miss Weasley occurred shortly after discovering the material. Indeed, I am guilty of taking my time to inform the authorities, but I'm sure members of the Wizengamot can see that I was reasonably concerned about the sort of treatment I might receive at the Ministry's hands."

"So you chose to keep the discovery to yourself, until you could procure the patent for its antidote?" Harry clarified.

"Of course I bloody well did!" Blishwick growled, the colour rising in his face. "The woman that attacked me is your sodding niece! Her aunt is D.M.L.E. Head and Chief Sorceress to this very court! I'm sure the members of the Wizengamot can see how biased these proceedings have been!"

"Healer Blishwick," McGonagall interrupted. "Am I correct in surmising that you have just confessed to willfully withholding information about a public health concern and a significant breach of Post-War Statute seven-hundred-and-forty-seven by neglecting to inform the Ministry of your discovery and conducting unapproved research?"

"I'll confess to your petty charge, but I won't confess to acting as some… some lowly _drug dealer_ ," Blishwick snarled.

Harry had succeeded in discomposing Blishwick's silky exterior. Then again, Blishwick's misplaced rage appeared genuine. He might have seemed petty, self-serving, and unethical to the Wizengamot—but that was hardly the same thing as orchestrating a lethal conspiracy.

McGonagall handed down a preliminary sentence on Rudyard Blishwick, then called Roxanne back to the front. For the second time that day, the disgraced healer stared up into the faces of the assembled Wizengamot. It didn't help that her story sounded so much less probable than Blishwick's. But perhaps that didn't matter…

"Miss Weasley, your counsel has informed me that you would like to enter new testimony?" McGonagall clarified.

"Yes," Roxanne said, and then paused.

 _Blishwick is telling the truth—a patient overdosed from the Silver much earlier than the records indicate. I can verify his story. Everything Perry said is crazy nonsense and I'm just a hysterical jilted lover…_

Or…

"Healer Blishwick confessed to me during the recess!" Roxanne blurted, and everyone in the chamber participated in a collective gasp. "He admitted that he manufactured and distributed the narcotic in order to force the Ministry into lifting the moratorium on experiments with muggle inventions."

The lives that had been so wantonly struck down _had_ to matter. The people Blishwick had willingly hurt _deserved_ justice. No person should be allowed to do what Blishwick had done and get away with it.

" _Objection!_ " the barrister cried. "This is another situation where it is merely her word against his!"

The members of the Wizengamot erupted into chatter, and despite McGonagall's furious protestations, she could not quiet them. Feeling a tickle at the back of her head, Roxanne resisted her instinct to scratch it away. The tingling crept down the back of her neck and she closed her eyes tight, willing herself to remain still. Everyone in the chambers was distracted, hollering at one another. No one noticed the orange beetle crawling down the length of Roxanne's index finger.

Marga Skeeter materialized in a flurry of colour before the Wizengamot.

Henry Pickett and Clemence Fitzgerald of the press corps cheered at the unexpected turn of events. Dennis Creevy seemed to have gotten popcorn from somewhere.

" _Miss Skeeter_ ," McGonagall balked. " _Would you like to tell me how long you have been in Miss Weasley's hair!?_ "

"Oh madame." Marga smirked. "Too long,"

* * *

"I just, I can't," Harry said, massaging the bridge of his nose. "You actually… A beetle animagus? That's the same… Your aunt!"

"Yes, Auror Potter, not a particularly original idea," Marga agreed, inspecting her fuschia fingernails. "But it served my purposes well."

The various counsel and Ministry officials had spent the better part of an hour working out Marga Skeeter's insane story and deciding whether or not to charge her with crimes of her own. The journalist had been following Roxanne ever since the two women had run into each other in Diagon alley, hiding in her insect form in order to gain illegal access to both Roxanne's apartment as well as her secure cell at the Ministry. It wasn't until the recess that Marga had revealed herself to Roxanne.

The words 'stalking,' 'illegal animagus' and 'unlawful breach of suspect chambers' got traded amongst the members of the court, but one thing remained mercifully clear: Healer Blishwick had unambiguously confessed to masterminding the drug ring and Marga Skeeter had overheard the whole thing.

"I'd like to know why we ran into you at the cinema," Perry called out, raising one hand and shoveling popcorn into his face with the other.

"I'd heard a rumour that Rudyard Blishwick had been spotted at the Pall Mall Odeon a few times," Marga explained. "I thought perhaps he and Roxy liked to meet there on the sly—and for the record, I still believe the pair of them had an affair."

"And were you able to confirm that Healer Blishwick _had_ indeed visited the establishment?" Hermione asked.

"Oh yes," Marga nodded. "The cashier identified his photograph at once. He's apparently _dreadful_ to those in the service industry."

Hermione and Harry shared a meaningful glance.

"And has the auror office found any connection between the cinema and the distribution of the narcotic?" McGonagall asked.

"Yes," Harry replied. "It's been under surveillance and we arrested two individuals last night during one of the films—they'd gone there to discuss the Ministry raids. We received the tip by way of a Ministry asset stationed in the area; a muggle informant by the name of Skoz."

McGonagall pursed her lips and shook her head, as though annoyed that Perry's wild accusations had proved true.

"One more thing!" Perry interrupted again. "How did you get that picture of Weasley at the Diogenes Club? I mean, I understand the whole 'unregistered animagus' thing is how you snuck in, but what—do you have a wee beetle sized camera?"

Marga quirked an eyebrow while McGonagall shook her head.

"I think it is time," the headmistress sighed, ignoring Perry's question. "For the Wizengamot to deliberate. We'll certainly need plenty of time to sort through this mess."

Zacharias Smith approached McGonnagall's podium and murmured something to the acting Chief Sorceress.

" _Well I think it's a little late for your client to want to strike a deal!_ " she replied in a carrying whisper. "We have everything we need."

In the end, Blishwick confessed. He confessed, not out of remorse, but in order to receive a lighter sentence. Life imprisonment got softened to twenty years with the possibility of parole. Roxanne didn't particularly care about the specifics. Twenty years in Azkaban wouldn't bring back everyone who had died, but at least it acknowledged that their deaths were _wrong._

Once Blishwick had been hauled away, Roxanne and her co-defendants assembled to hear their updated sentences:

"Mr. Hyperion Hume," McGonagall read from her scroll. "The Wizengamot has considered the extenuating circumstances for your behavior, as well as the information they afforded. We now pass down the sentence of two-hundred hours community service, for the assault and unlawful restraint of a St. Mungo's orderly, and two months out-patient participation in a substance abuse aversion program, for your own good."

Perry punched the air in victory and McGonagall didn't even bother to disguise her eye roll.

"Mr. Ryan Davies, while you distributed illegal narcotics and conspired to subvert a Ministry investigation, your testimony was critical to the conviction of Rudyard Blishwick. You have been sentenced with one month in prison including participation in the on-site substance abuse diversion program, and one-hundred hours of community service in the Recreational Magic Abuse Recovery ward at St. Mungo's Hospital." After a pause, McGonagall added, "let this be a lesson to you."

Ryan thanked the Sorceress, then Rose trembled as she stood, awaiting news of her own fate.

"Miss Rose Weasley, for the value of your testimony, your sentence has been reduced to—"

"Erm, Professor?" Rose interrupted in a high voice. "I mean, Chief Sorceress? I'd like to… I'd like to go back to my original sentence of five hundred hours community service. Perhaps not the Azkaban bit—if that's possible, I mean... Just, yeah, I think I'd like to do the community service."

"Very well," McGonagall said, raising an eyebrow. "Five hundred hours volunteer work. On to Miss _Roxanne_ Weasley."

Roxanne stood, smoothing the skirt of her robes as she did.

"Your investigation and creative thinking—while unorthodox—was effective. The Wizengamot must admit that, without you, we could not have arrived upon a satisfactory conviction of Healer Rudyard Blishwick. We have thus forgiven you of all crimes committed in service of your investigation, and pass down no sentence."

Roxanne released a tremendous sigh of relief—her first in a long time. "Thank you, Chief—"

"But—" McGonagall interrupted. "As for your assault on Healer Blishwick in the course of his duties, an event that predates any investigation, our hands are tied. In consideration of the extenuating circumstances that lead to such an act, we have agreed to pass down the minimum possible sentence: six months in Azkaban prison."

All things considered, Roxanne had emerged from the trial victorious. And yet, she was ushered away by a crew of aurors and locked into a holding cell to await transport to the fortress. Apparently, such a thing required hours and hours of paperwork, and she fell asleep waiting.

"Roxy," Harry said, rousing her awake. "It's time to go now."

"If it's possible, I'd like to do one thing here before we leave." She threw her legs over the bench. "I promise I'd never run off on your watch."

"Alright, but we'll need to be quick," he agreed.

They rode the lifts together to the second level of the Ministry and Roxanne cut a course for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts and Technology Office.

"Uncle Percy?" she called, knocking on the gleaming oak door.

"Roxanne!" he cried, bounding to accept her. "I just heard the news! _Six months!_ That's madness—I have half a mind to—"

"Don't worry about that," Roxanne shrugged it off. "This is about something else. I'd like you to consider lifting the moratorium on muggle substance experimentation."

Percy considered her for a moment before collapsing into his chair, blowing out a long sigh between his lips as he did. "It'll be tricky, Roxy," he admitted. "The conservatives don't like the idea of wizards adopting muggle ways and the liberals think any research could get used for muggle baiting."

"I understand the concerns," Roxanne agreed, taking a seat before him. "But there's real potential, in the fields of Healing and Potions at least, if we could open up avenues of inquiry in muggle pharmacology. And what Blishwick did was horrible, but… He had a point. However distorted."

"Even if someone could get approval from the various departments involved, it's a lot of lobbying—just the paperwork alone…"

"Well," Roxanne sighed. "I _am_ heading off to Azkaban for a six month sentence. I'll need _something_ to do."

* * *

 _ **Authors's Note:**_ _All that's left now is the epilogue!_

 _I chose the surname 'Blishwick' as a reference to CambAngst's amazing story,_ Detox. __

 _'Clemence Fitzgerald' and 'Henry Pickett' are references to justonemorefic's classic,_ Etc. Etc. (and life goes on).

 _Huge beta credit to Shez, who is the bestest forever!_

 _And thank YOU so much for reading! Def let me know what you think if you have a sec :)_

xoxo  
Roisin


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Wind swirled over the jagged island in the North Sea. Roxanne stood shivering with neither a cloak nor a hood. The thin robes she'd arrived in whipped in the gale. Summer had come to an end, but its last breaths hadn't been felt within the eternal gloom of the fortress.

Auror Finch-Fletchley trained his eyes on his pocket watch, counting down the seconds until noon. Looking up he traded a curt nod with Auror Bones. Roxanne couldn't help but remember that, so many miles to the south, the Hogwarts Express would be rattling to life, carrying new and returning students to Hogwarts.

Outside Azkaban Prison, Roxanne Weasley accepted her wand back from the aurors. Red Oak and Dragon Heartstring, just shy of twelve inches, and flexible. It almost felt like it was vibrating in her fingers—a low humming that she'd learned to take for granted. Now, after so long separated from her wand, she had to repress the urge to cast every spell she knew just for the hell of it. The aurors might think she was attacking them and reconsider her discharge.

Finch-Fletchley reminded her of the terms of early release ( _weekly meetings with an assigned probation officer and one month's reactivation of The Trace_ ) and Bones offered the shadow of a smile. Roxanne almost couldn't believe that she was free to go at last.

 _Read some trashy novels, get a tattoo. A few months in Azkaban is a walk in the park._

'Walk in the park' might have been something of an exaggeration. Never before had Roxanne experienced such distrust from authority figures. Rules upon rules regulated every detail of her behaviour, and many of them didn't make any obvious sense. Guards had barked at her for resting her hands in her pockets, for trying to visit the loo during meals, for storing her own books in her own cell.

The monotony of labyrinthine corridors, cave-like cells and rigid schedules had made her relatively short sentence stretch out like an eternity. The worst had been the way it got under her skin. Anxiety and self-doubt reigned, keeping prisoners constantly on edge for fear of further punishment.

And now, after counting down the days until she was free, Roxanne could just _leave._ She stared out over the seemingly endless distance stretching out before her and felt overwhelmed that she could now go forth into it. Something like vertigo gripped her stomach with icy-fingers. For a moment, she felt frozen to the spot.

Suck it up, bitch, she told herself, then disapparated without a word or backward glance.

"Roxy dear!" Mrs. Hudson cried just as soon as Roxanne's feet landed in the courtyard of Baker Street. "We've been waiting for you!" The old Scotswoman dashed outside and grabbed her lodger up in a rib-cracking embrace. Physical contact came as a welcome shock.

"Oh, it's so good to see you!" Roxanne blinked her stinging eyes, savoring the warmth of her landlady's hug. "Please tell me you've got the kettle on. I've had nothing but tepid tea for months."

"I'll fix you a properly _scalding_ cup."

Roxanne took the steps up to 221B two at a time and exploded into her flat. Perry was sat in his armchair, a hardcover book open on his lap. Their shabby little home appeared palatial after her damp cell in Azkaban.

"Alright, Perry." She grinned.

"'My cleverness has long since been established; I think you mean to admire my moxie.'"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Nice to see you too?"

"That's the quippy one-liner I told Blishwick when he caught me in his office. He said 'you think you're very clever, don't you?' and I said the thing about moxie. I told you it would come to me!"

"Oh give me a hug, then." Roxanne rolled her eyes.

At her invitation Perry leapt at her, pressing his head into her shoulder for a long time.

"Are you still keen to move out then?" he asked quietly enough that Mrs. Hudson couldn't hear from the kitchen.

"Just now, I think I'm more keen on settling back in."

With one final squeeze she extricated herself from Perry and collapsed into her armchair. Mrs. Hudson arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits, shifting several mouldy cups in order to precariously balance the tray on the overflowing coffee table. The mess didn't even bother Roxanne very much any more.

"So what are you reading, then?" she asked, kicking off her shoes. The glittering copper tattoo on her inner wrist still stung.

"Marga Skeeter's novella based on your story." Perry showed her the cover: _A Study in Silver._ "It's alright—bit didactic at times, and there's a lot of weird bird imagery."

"Read it to me," Roxanne said, curling up with a delightfully steaming mug of Mrs. Hudson's cardamom and mint tea.

"Very well." Perry skipped back to the first page and cleared his throat. "' _The_ Daily Prophet _fluttered against Roxanne Weasley's hands as an unseasonable morning wind whipped down Diurn Alley. She struggled with her newspaper, trying not to lose hold of it, and took another sip of her cappuccino…_ '"

* * *

 **The End**

* * *

 _Roxanne and Perry will return in..._

 **Identity Politics**

(coming soon)


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